


The Comeback Kid

by thesaddestboner



Series: Author's Favorites [12]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Break Up, Detroit Tigers, F/M, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, Sometimes Shit Just Happens and You Gotta Roll With It, Strippers & Strip Clubs, bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 47,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’d learned how to balance a checkbook, handle autograph requests and gracefully duck out of interviews—just to name a few—at the league’s Rookie Development program, but there was no section in the manual about dealing with Ryan Perry.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [learnthemusic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/learnthemusic/gifts).



> Thanks to [**inplayruns**](http://inplayruns.livejournal.com/), [**crimsonkitty88**](http://crimsonkitty88.livejournal.com/), [**vamm_goda**](http://vamm_goda.livejournal.com/), [**unreckless**](http://unreckless.livejournal.com/), [**americanleaguer**](http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/), and [**learnthemusic**](http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/) for handholding, asskicking, and all manner of awesomeness. This was originally a holiday request from the same batch that produced _Must Be a Different View_ and _Once Upon a Twitter_ —back in the winter of 2009. lol, sorry, Maria. 
> 
> This started out as a perspective shift remix of [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/408863) but veered well off course. Asshole Verlander is probably a leftover from when it was a perspective shift remix, actually. 
> 
> This used to be called "Everything Is Just Fine," but I decided to change it to its working title (which I think fits better anyway).
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

I know it’s hard, but  
You’ve gotta deal with it.  
Why don’t you look around,  
Show me what you’re made of.  
— Sleigh Bells, “Comeback Kid”

Rick’s new teammates say he’s too serious for his young age. He needs to lighten up, loosen his collar and have a little fun, they say. He’s already a middle-aged man at the ripe old age of twenty.

Yeah, whatever.

Rick likes himself just fine the way he is, thank you very much. Yeah, he still drives the used Ford Explorer his parents bought him for his high school graduation. He still shops at Wal-Mart and searches out bargains, and he still wears hand-me-downs from his big brother, Zach. So what?

They make fun of him for that, too. Verlander, especially. Verlander acts like he’s personally offended that Rick isn’t cooler, or something. It’s almost like Verlander had all these expectations of what he thought Rick should be like built up in his head and Rick himself had shattered them all by failing to live up to them.

Rick really doesn’t know what to think of Verlander, anyway. After the initial letdown upon their first meeting, Verlander practically gloms onto Rick and starts offering him unsolicited advice on girls, his clothes, his hair, his shoes, his battered old Explorer. Verlander tells him to invest some of his signing bonus toward a nicer car, the kind of sexy sports car that’ll get all the girls. Rick just laughs and says if those girls are only into him because of the kind of car he drives, he’s not interested.

“Dude,” Verlander says.

“What?” Rick flips idly through a glossy car magazine Verlander had practically shoved in his face.

“Dude,” Verlander says again. “Are you _gay_ or something?”

Rick snorts and continues to flip through the magazine without really looking at the pictures of sexy cars or sexy women. “It’s none of your business,” he says.

“You _are_ , aren’t you? Li’l Ricky likes the dudes!” Verlander brays, slapping himself on the knee and cackling like this is the funniest thing he’s heard _ever_.

“Aw, cut it out, man.” Zumaya leans across Rick and slings a damp, musty-smelling towel into Verlander’s face. “Don’t be an ass.”

Verlander throws the towel back at Zumaya’s face and he starts spluttering. “This is important stuff, Zoomy,” Verlander says, pulling up a seat next to Rick. “What’re you into? Big muscly jocks? Or emo twinks?”

Rick lets out a put-upon sigh and focuses intently on his magazine, hoping Verlander will get the hint and disappear. He doesn’t. “Neither.”

“Oh, c’mon, you have to be into _something_ ,” Verlander needles.

“I am. It’s just none of your business,” Rick says, finally looking up from his car magazine.

“C’mon, dude. We’re your _family_ now.” Verlander slings an arm behind Rick’s shoulders and offers him a sharky grin. “You can tell us _anything_.”

Rick shrugs Verlander’s arm away. “No thanks. I save the heart to hearts for my shrink,” he deadpans.

Verlander drops his arm and stares at him with slack-jawed surprise. “You have a _shrink_?”

Rick rolls his eyes and shakes his head, unable to help the smirk that flickers briefly across his face. “I was being sarcastic.”

“I don’t think I’ve met a weirder kid yet,” Verlander says, poking Rick in the shoulder with his finger, “and I know _everybody_.”

“He ain’t weird. He’s just—just _different_ ,” Zumaya supplies helpfully, flashing Rick a big attempt at a friendly grin.

“You’d know from different, wouldn’t you, Zoomy?” Verlander teases, nudging Zumaya in the ribs with his elbow.

“Hey, I’d watch it if I were you, _pendejo_ ,” Zumaya says, posturing, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’d you just call me?” Verlander asks.

Zumaya just flashes a shit-eating grin at him, and Rick hides a snicker behind his hand.

“What is it?” Verlander asks, turning on Rick.

He lowers his hand and smirks at Verlander full-on. “ _Pendejo_ means ‘pubic hair’ in Spanish.”

Verlander huffs unhappily. “You speak Spanish, too? What is it that you _can’t_ do, wonder boy?”

Rick shrugs. “I dunno. I can do pretty much anything I put my mind to. _And_ make it look easy.” 

“I hate you already,” Verlander says, but Rick can see the makings of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“Awesome. I’ve accomplished my number one goal in life,” he says dryly.

Zumaya drops his arm around Rick’s shoulders. “You need to get yourself a new set of goals, kid.”

-

Jake wants to know _all_ about Rick’s first real, honest-to-God big league training camp, so he tells him about Verlander threatening to dress him up as a girl and deposit him in GaYbor—“I bet you’d like that, _wouldn’t_ you, li’l Ricky?” “Fuck off, Verlander.”—and the disgusting grayish-greenish crud Perry’s cultivating under the toilet seat of the apartment they’re renting together, and the big, swirly pink rose tattoo Zumaya got inked on his upper thigh while wasted the previous weekend.

Jake sighs, sounding indulgent and almost disappointed. “Fuck Zumaya and his gay-ass tattoos. I wanna hear about the _girls_ , Ricky.”

Rick settles on the end of his bed and kicks off his shoes. “What girls, Jake?”

“C’mon, man, you’re in the fucking _big leagues_ , Ricky. You can’t seriously expect me to believe you’re not swimming in pussy right now,” Jake whines.

Rick’s brain rebels at the thought of talking with his kid brother about anything related to sex and he quickly banishes the very idea to the Siberia of his conscious thought where, hopefully, it’ll catch hypothermia and die. “Why would I talk with you about that?”

“You’re such a priss,” Jake accuses. He actually sounds angry and Rick itches to tell him to get his priorities in order, but he holds his tongue. “Zach told me _all_ about the slutty college girls at Seton Hall. ’s the least you could do. I’m your kid _brother_ , man. Have pity on me.”

Rick sighs. “There’s really nothing to tell, Jake. I’ve barely had any time to hook up, anyway.” He tugs his socks off and stuffs them in his shoes. He doesn’t bother taking off his jeans or his t-shirt, just slips under the covers and cups his cell phone against his ear. “Baseball’s more important.”

Jake lets out an undignified squawk. “You’re such a fucking fag. Maybe you _do_ belong out in GaYbor.”

“Shut up, Jake,” Rick says, mildly, tucking his pillow under his cheek. “I’m going to hang up on you if you spew any more homophobic shit.”

“Jeez, sor _ry_. Didn’t know I was talking to the fuckin’ P.C. police,” Jake grumbles. “I better go, anyways. It’s getting kinda late. G’night, Ricky.”

“ ’Night, Jake.”

-

Rick is standing in line in the cafeteria, scooping limp, sallow scrambled eggs onto his plate when someone grabs him from behind and the plate goes flying.

“Gotcha!” Perry steps back and claps his hands gleefully, looking proud of himself.

“You’re such an asshole,” Rick says mildly, bending down to pick up his tray.

Perry crouches down in front of him and grabs a handful of scrambled eggs. “ ’s why you love me, li’l Ricky.” He drops the eggs on Rick’s tray with a disgusting _splurch_. Looking pleased, Perry grabs another handful of eggs and squeezes them between his fingers.

Rick rolls his eyes and retrieves his plastic fork. He briefly contemplates stabbing Perry with it, but refrains. “You’re such a kid.” Rick pauses. “Li’l Ricky?”

“It was Verlander’s idea, man. Caught on like wildfire.” Perry slaps the eggs onto the tray and Rick sighs, flicking a bit of yellow gloop off the front of his gray **PROPERTY OF THE DETROIT TIGERS** hoodie.

“Stop playing with your food,” Rick scolds.

“It’s not _my_ food, it’s yours,” Perry says, grinning, holding his hands out like he’s going to wipe his palms down the front of Rick’s hoodie.

“If you wipe your hands on me I’m going to tell that girl you’re messing around with that you have herpes,” Rick says, dropping the fork on the tray. He spots a cafeteria worker coming toward them, bearing a mop and bucket.

Perry drops his arms. “You drive a hard bargain, li’l Ricky.”

“I oughta tell her you have herpes just for the li’l Ricky thing,” he says, pretending to think, like he’s honestly considering it. He’d never do that, though, no matter how badly Perry deserves it; that’s a bit low, even for Rick.

Perry’s eyes bug out in feigned horror. “You _wouldn’t_!”

“Try me.” Rick smirks.

Perry narrows his eyes and rubs his hands off on his own sweatshirt. “I don’t believe you. You’re bluffing.”

“Like I said,” Rick says, getting up and pulling a stack of napkins out of his front pocket. He holds out a napkin to Perry. 

Perry takes it between his thumb and forefinger and starts wiping at his hands. “I think I may’ve underestimated you, Porcello,” he says, grabbing another napkin out of Rick’s hands.

“I’m used to it,” Rick teases, stepping aside so the cafeteria worker can clean up the mess they’ve made.

Perry reaches out, clips Rick in the shoulder with his fist and grins at him. “I won’t be making that mistake again . . . li’l Ricky.” Perry starts laughing, turns, and bolts out of the cafeteria.

Rick just shakes his head and lets him go.

-

Rick’s on his knees in the bathroom he—unfortunately—shares with Perry, scrubbing furiously at the grayish-greenish crud under the toilet seat with a Brillo pad when he hears the door to their apartment creak open.

Someone or something collides violently with the little table they keep by the door and Rick can hear muffled giggles and the rustling of clothes.

Rick sighs, shoving his Brillo pad and Soft-Scrub in the cupboard under the sink, and creeps out of the bathroom for his own bedroom, hoping to go unnoticed.

“Hey,” Perry hollers. “Li’l Ricky, how’s it goin’? This’s my friend, Gina!” Perry has an arm around a blonde in a low-cut silver lamé top and white short shorts.

“Hi,” Gina says, sounding just as wasted as Perry. She slips a hand under the back of Perry’s shirt and he squirms away from her side, face reddening. “We’re drunk.”

“Oh, I had no idea,” Rick deadpans. Perry and his girl are too wasted to get the joke. “I’m just gonna go make myself scarce. And possibly hang myself in my closet.”

“Why would’ja do that?” Perry asks, breaking away from Gina and staggering toward Rick, arms reaching out like Frankenstein’s monster. He trips on the pant legs of his baggy jeans and falls flat on his face, and it takes every muscle in Rick’s body to keep from laughing hysterically. Instead, he bends down to help Perry up, because he’s just that nice of a guy.

“Smooth move, Exlax.” Rick wraps his hands around Perry’s and tries to hoist him up, but Perry’s unhelpful and a lot of dead weight. A lot of drunken dead weight. “C’mon, man, you gotta help me here.”

Perry presses his face into the carpet and says, “Mmrrph.”

“What was that?” Rick drags him a few inches, hopes Perry ends up with rug burn on his face.

Gina shuts the front door behind her and slips out of her heels. “I’m gonna go slip into something more comfortable,” she says, hiccuping.

“I got some t-shirts and boxers you can wear,” Rick says, still trying to drag Perry to his feet.

Gina laughs and puts her hands on her cocked hips. “Are you, like, his keeper or something?”

“Nah. I just look out for his drunk ass from time to time,” Rick says, rapping his knuckles on Perry’s head. “C’mon, man. If you don’t pry your drunk ass up off the floor, I’m gonna move in on your girl.”

Perry raises his head and squints his eyes at Rick, his face bright red and scrunched up like a newborn’s. “You _wish_ ,” he says, voice wavering. Perry belches loudly and drops back down on the carpet.

“How much did you have to drink anyway?” Rick sits cross-legged next to Perry and pulls a Sharpie out of the pocket of his jeans. He uncaps it and presses the tip lightly to the back of Perry’s neck.

Perry shivers and turns his head slightly. “Mmrrr, dunno. Twenty shots, maybe. Forget.”

“Pretty sure you’d be in a coma right now if that were the case,” Rick says.

“Stopped counting after six,” Perry says.

Rick writes **I SUCK COCK** on the back of Perry’s neck and draws a crude, misshapen cock and a pair of balls on his cheek. “Man, I’ve never seen you so out of it that you can’t even score.” He replaces the cap on the Sharpie and pockets it.

“Can score in my fuckin’ sleep,” Perry mumbles, trying to push himself to his feet.

“You do know your pants are down around your ankles, right?” _And that you have a cock and balls on your face?_ Rick grins broadly.

Perry looks down at himself. “Oh, guess I do.” He unbuttons his jeans right there in the foyer and falls back on his ass with a thump, trying to wriggle out of them.

“Dude, maybe you should take your shoes off first. Let me help you. Don’t want you to, like, hit your head and get brain damaged.” Rick grabs onto Perry’s leg and tugs his one of his Nikes off. “Well, any more than you already are.”

“I _should_ be mad at you for that, but I’m gonna get laid tonight and you’re not so I’ma let it go,” Perry says, giggling manically, allowing Rick to pull his other shoe off.

“I’ll just press my ear to the wall and get laid vicariously through you,” Rick jokes, pressing Perry’s sneakers into his chest.

“That’s really gay, man.” Perry grins.

“Oh, whatever. Go fuck your groupie.” Rick waves him off.

Perry staggers to his feet, arms wrapped around his sneakers, boxers and jeans sagging down low around his hips. Rick tries not to stare at the curve of Perry’s hipbone, but it’s kind of impossible. It’s sort of just _there_.

“Thanks, man.” Perry gives him two thumbs up and scampers off to his bedroom.

Rick just shakes his head and goes to bed.

-

Rick wakes to the sound of something banging against the thin wall that separates his room from Perry’s.

A woman’s voice calls out “Oh, _God_ ,” and it’s quickly followed by more banging on the wall.

Rick shoves his head under his pillow and tries to block out the sounds of Perry and the girl, to no avail. It almost seems like they can sense him trying his hardest not to listen in, and just crank up the volume.

“Fuck, babe, you’re so fuckin’ _wet_ —” Perry’s voice is a low growl and, hell, it sounds like Perry’s right there, crooning and growling in Rick’s head.

“ _Yes_! Jesus, fuck!”

Rick throws off his covers, stomps out of his bedroom for the living room, and flops on the couch. He turns the TV on and flips through infomercials, a preacher hawking his most recent self-help book, late night SportsCenter reruns, and cheesy Cinemax porn. None of it is interesting enough to hold his attention, and Rick finds himself actually _listening_ to Perry and Gina now.

They’re not shouting anymore, thank God, both apparently incapable of stringing words together to form sentences. The only noises coming from Perry’s room are occasional grunts and the rhythmic creaking of his mattress springs.

Rick kicks himself mentally for even agreeing to move in with Perry in the first place. Or at least agreeing to move in with Perry without considering the consequences first. He really wishes he’d invested in a white noise machine or earplugs or something. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Rick had a girl of his own, but he doesn’t. And he’s not about to live vicariously through Perry’s random hookups, despite what he’d said earlier.

Gina lets out a shrill, ear-shattering scream, cutting through the fog of Rick’s drowsy thoughts, and he wonders, for a brief moment, if Perry is killing her. He shakes his head and turns up the volume a little bit to drown out the sounds of their sex.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot, babe. Want you to come for me.” So much for that. Rick starts looking for earplugs in the drawer of his nightstand. “That’s it, just like that, _yeah_.”

Gina only moans throatily in response.

Rick gives up on the earplugs and turns up the volume on the TV until his eardrums ache.

-

The next morning, when Rick finally drags his tired ass out of bed for breakfast, Gina is already up, frying eggs and sausage in a pan on the stove.

“G’morning,” he grumbles, appraising her with sticky eyes. He rubs at them with his fists. “ ’s Perry up?”

“He’s taking an extra long shower,” Gina says, poking at the sausage links with a fork. She looks over at Rick. Her cheek twitches. “Somebody drew a cock and balls on his face.”

Rick ducks his head, hiding his satisfied smirk behind his hand. “Aw, jeez. Probably Verlander or something,” he says.

Gina turns the stovetop off and wipes a hand on the bottom of the garish, oversized Ed Hardy t-shirt she’s wearing that’s obviously Perry’s. Rick pretends he doesn’t notice the large hand-shaped bruises all over her thighs, focusing intently on the salt and pepper shakers instead.

Perry’s bedroom door opens and he pads down the hall, announcing his presence in the kitchen with a loud, nasty sounding belch.

“Good morning, my lovelies.” He grabs Gina around the waist and pulls her into his bare chest, laying a big, sloppy kiss on her mouth. His gray sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and Rick definitely notices the long, red scratches running down his back, disappearing into the waistband of his sweats.

Rick drops the salt shaker and watches helplessly as it rolls toward the edge of the table.

Perry lets go of Gina and stomps noisily over to the kitchen table. Rick had picked it up at an estate sale right before camp and Perry bitched up a storm about how gross buying dead people’s junk was. He seems to have gotten used to it though. He hasn’t complained about it in a while, and Rick’s grown kind of attached to it.

“Mornin’, li’l Ricky.” Perry slides in across from Rick and puts his bare feet on the tabletop.

“Get your fucking ingrown toenail out of my face,” Rick says.

“It’s not ingrown. It’s just deformed.” Perry stretches his leg out, wriggles his toes under Rick’s nose.

Rick pushes his foot away and leans down to pick up the fallen salt shaker. “It’s amazing you manage to get as many girls as you do.”

“I’m fucking _charming_ , that’s why.” Perry sits up straight in his seat and plants both feet—thankfully—on the linoleum.

“Who told you that, your mom?” Rick asks.

“No, _your_ mom.” Perry grins, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Rick glares at him, tightening his mouth in a thin line. “Hey, don’t talk like that about my mom.”

Perry shrugs and throws up his hands, as if to say ‘Who, me?’ “ _You_ started it, man.”

“It’s not the same—” Perry leans across the table and punches Rick hard in the shoulder. “Ow, _hey_!” Rick slugs him right back in the chest.

Perry slaps Rick’s hand away and pushes his chair back from the table, getting a hand inside the collar of Rick’s t-shirt. “Titty twister!”

“Goddammit, no!” Rick tries to fight off Perry’s attack, but Perry is determined. He pinches one of Rick’s nipples hard between his thumb and forefinger, twists it, and Rick screams like a girl, embarrassingly high-pitched and shrill. “ _Ow_! Shit! You fucking asshole, I’m gonna have to go on the D.L. with a severed nipple!”

“Serves you right.” Perry grins, his arm still down the front of Rick’s shirt.

Rick grabs onto him by the forearm and digs his fingers in. “I’m going to get you when you least suspect it.”

Perry’s grin widens. “Way to just announce your plans, genius. You’re never gonna catch me with my guard down now.”

Rick’s suddenly aware— _way_ too aware—that Perry’s pressed against him, the only things separating them being Rick’s thin t-shirt and Perry’s arm down his collar. Perry’s skin is warm, dry, and he smells clean, like the ocean.

Rick jerks back, Perry’s arm still caught in the collar of his t-shirt, and it’s Perry’s turn to scream.

“You’re cutting off all the circulation in my arm, dillweed!” Perry tugs his arm out of the collar of Rick’s shirt and nurses it against his chest. “Man, if I can’t pitch, this is _so_ your fault.”

“It’s _my_ fault you decided to give me a titty twister and just so happened to get your arm stuck in the collar of my shirt?” Rick asks, rubbing at his aching nipple through his t-shirt. “On what planet does that make sense? Are you allergic to earth logic?”

Perry rubs at the angry red crease on his arm with his thumb. “Yeah!”

Rick notices Gina then, watching them with a funny look on her face, a line forming between her eyebrows. Rick had kind of forgotten about her. Gina shakes her head when she catches him looking at her, blonde curls swinging from side to side, and sets a plate down on the table in front of Perry.

“ _Boys_ ,” she scolds, sliding into the seat next to Perry.

Perry sits down, appearing chastened. “Thanks, babe.” He grabs his fork and digs in.

Rick doesn’t sit, just stands awkwardly by his chair and rubs his chest.

“I could make you some breakfast too, if you want,” Gina offers.

“No thanks,” Rick says, backing out of the kitchen. “I’m not hungry.”

Rick practically runs back to his room and shuts the door behind him. He feels mean, petty. Fuck Perry. Fuck Gina too. 

Rick throws on a faded Seton Hall Prep hoodie, a pair of jeans, and a pair of crosstrainers Rick thinks might actually be Jake’s, and slips out of the apartment.

-

“Yeah, so. I dunno, man. I don’t think I can live with him anymore.” Rick cups the cell phone to his ear, as he jogs toward Lake Hills Boulevard, toward Joker Marchant. His and Perry’s place is only about half a mile away from the team’s training complex, and he figures he might as well get some work in on the side while he’s out here. All the more reason not to go home to Perry and _Gina_ , too.

Jake sighs. “You should be following his lead, not complaining like a little bitch.”

“You give terrible advice, I hope you know that,” Rick grumbles. The soles of his crosstrainers slap noisily against the wet concrete of the sidewalk. “Also, I stole your crosstrainers.”

“I _do_ know that,” Jake says. “I thought it might’ve been you. You’re a lousy brother.”

“I know,” Rick says humorlessly. He’s been running all morning and into the early afternoon in a light, fine drizzle, and it’s finally starting to soak through his hoodie, plastering his hair to his forehead. There’s a light burn in his chest, and his muscles ache pleasantly.

“Dude, I was just _joking_.” Jake sounds petulant. He’s probably pouting at the phone, face scrunched up like a confused puppy.

“I know, so was I,” Rick says. He knows Jake won’t believe him.

Jake starts and stops a few times. Neither of them are really good with the heart to hearts, Jake especially. It practically goes against every fiber of Jake’s being to initiate an actual brotherly talk that doesn’t consist of him teasing Rick for being lame or morose. Rick braces himself for the worst.

Finally, Jake coughs out, “Dude, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Jake.”

“You better be, ’cause I’d hate to have to fly down to Lakeland to kick your skinny ass for being such a morose motherfucker. You’re a fucking _big leaguer_ now, Ricky.”

“I know,” Rick says. “It’s just—nothing, I don’t know.”

“It can’t all be about Perry and his booty calls,” Jake says. He pauses. “Or _can_ it? Are you pining for your roommate, Ricky?”

“Shut _up_ , Jake,” Rick snaps, flushing with impotent anger.

“Ah, sounds like I touched on a nerve.” Jake laughs.

“I swear to God—”

Jake scoffs, sounds disgruntled. “Chill. I was just messin’ with you.”

Rick can just spot Joker Marchant in the distance. The stadium proudly bears the words **FLORIDA HOME OF THE DETROIT TIGERS** on a tower that overlooks several beige, Spanish-style buildings. Spanish moss drips from some nearby cypress trees. 

“It wasn’t funny.” Rick slows his jog to a trot. “I’m at the training complex now. I’ll talk to you later, Jake.”

“Yeah, man . . . Hey, Rick?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Don’t let it get to you too much,” Jake says.

“What do you mean?” Rick asks.

“I mean, whatever’s eating at you,” Jake says, trying to sound wise beyond his eighteen years. “Whatever it is, it’s not as important as baseball.”

 _Easier said than done, little brother_ , Rick thinks. “Thanks, Jake. See ya.”

“ ’Bye, Rick.” Jake hangs up.

-

“I can’t live with him anymore,” Rick announces, as he works oil into his glove in the clubhouse, a few days after the awkward conversation with Jake. “I can’t sleep. He’s always got a girl in his room, and they go at it all goddamn night. I can’t even hear myself _think_.”

Zumaya shrugs his broad shoulders, not so much with the helpfulness today. “Dunno, man. Maybe ask him to stop bringin’ girls around.”

“Asking Perry not to fuck? That would be like asking Gandhi to—to eat a fucking hamburger or something,” Rick says

Zumaya cocks his head like a curious puppy. “Dunno what Gandhi has to do with anything, but c’mon, man. Just grow a pair and tell ’im either he cuts it out with the chicks at all hours of the night or he’s gonna come home and find all his shit on the lawn.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Perry had it written into the lease that he’s not to be without a steady supply of girls,” Rick snarks.

Zumaya whacks a big, warm hand on Rick’s back. “I can say somethin’ to ’im if you like.”

“Nah, he’ll just call me a pussy for running to somebody who’s bigger than he is and getting him to do my dirty work,” Rick grumbles. “I’ll just buy ear plugs or a white noise machine and suck it up.”

Zumaya laughs and pulls his hand back, reaching into his locker for his glove. “Whatever, man. He’s gonna walk all over you ’til you stand up for yourself.”

Rick huffs an indignant sigh. He knows Zumaya’s right. 

He’d learned how to balance a checkbook, handle autograph requests and gracefully duck out of interviews—just to name a few—at the league’s Rookie Development program, but there was no section in the manual about dealing with Ryan Perry. 

Actually, now he kind of wishes there _was_ an actual manual he could consult because he’s seriously at his fucking wit’s end. 

“It’s just annoying, that’s all. It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Rick says, nodding emphatically at Zumaya, who doesn’t look like he buys it. “What?”

“Who’re you tryin’ to convince here, man, me or you?” he asks.

Rick supposes he has a point. A tiny one, but a point all the same. “Nobody. Just saying.” He shoves his feet into his cleats, quickly laces them up, and ties them off in sloppy knots. 

“Yeah, well.” Zumaya shrugs, angles his large body toward the exit. “Just hang in there, man. It’ll get better.”

Rick looks up at him and snorts out a laugh. “Funny, everybody says that.” He grabs his glove and sunglasses out of his locker. 

Zumaya reaches out and clubs Rick between the shoulder blades with a big paw. “Everybody says that ’cause it’s true, rook.” He drops his arm, turns and leaves.

Rick slides his sunglasses on and follows him out.

-

Rick gets shaken out of a dream with a jolt when something heavy drops on his chest. It was an awesome dream, he’d pitched the decisive seventh game of the World Series against the Minnesota Twins—go figure—and Verlander and Zumaya lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him through downtown Detroit. Then the two of them suddenly disappeared and an abandoned car that had been set on fire fell on him. 

He opens his eyes slowly and stares up at the ceiling. The heavy weight is still there on his chest, breathing noisily through its nose. Rick smacks his lips and mumbles, “Perry?”

Perry is sprawled over him, smelling faintly of smoke and liquor. “ _Dude_ ,” he groans, somehow managing to turn dude into a multi syllable word.

“What?” Rick shakes the cobwebs out of his head. His heart is practically beating its way out of his chest, and he swears he can still smell burning rubber on the air.

“Let’s go out,” Perry slurs, not moving to roll off of him.

“Where’s _Gina_?” Rick asks, unable to keep the snark from leeching into his tone. 

“I dunno where she is, man. We broke up,” Perry says, face drooping. “She said I’m too—too _young_ for her. She’s only, like, four years older than me, for fuck’s sake.”

“She probably didn’t mean age-wise,” Rick says, gently nudging Perry off his chest.

“I know what we can do!” Perry sits up straight, Gina momentarily forgotten. “Let’s go to the Gold Club!”

“Isn’t that in Tampa? I don’t want to go to _Tampa_ ,” Rick says. He’s whining now, but he doesn’t really care. “Plus,” he adds, checking the digital alarm clock on his nightstand, “it’s already past midnight.”

“I got connections who can get us into the Skybox Suite for free,” Perry pleads, grabbing Rick by the shoulders and shaking him until his brains scramble.

Rick throws Perry off him and groans. “Dude, why don’t you find someone else to drag to a fucking strip club in Tampa at midnight?”

“If you don’t wanna go to one in Tampa, how ’bout Winter Haven? Or Ybor City?” Perry sits back against the wall with a thump. “We could drive down to Fort Lauderdale!”

“That’s four fucking hours away,” Rick sighs, pressing his thumb between his eyes. “If you wanna go all the way to Fort Lauderdale for a fucking strip club, might as well drive the extra couple of hours to Miami.”

“You’d go to Miami with me?” Perry’s eyes light up like a pinball machine.

“No! It was just an example. _God_ ,” Rick huffs.

“You’re no fun,” Perry whines, pouting and banging his fists on the mattress.

“Yeah, I thought you’d figured this out already,” Rick grumbles, sitting up and pressing his back against the wall.

“Come on, man. You gotta loosen up a little bit,” Perry says, whacking Rick on the knee. “Goin’ out clubbin’ with me isn’t gonna kill you or anything.”

He shrugs. “Hey, you never know. It might.”

Perry loops his arm around Rick’s neck and pulls him into his shoulder. “I’m gonna help you loosen up, man. You’re my new project.”

Rick pushes Perry away and laughs. “I’m your project now?”

Perry grins and nods. “Yup! Consider this the first phase of Operation Get the Stick Out of Li’l Ricky’s Ass,” he crows, leaping off the bed and pulling his keys out of his pants pocket. He tosses them to Rick, who catches them in his cupped palms. “Let’s get goin’!”

Rick laughs, swinging the keychain around on his finger, and follows Perry out the door.

-

“See? Things’re lookin’ up for you two,” Zumaya says, after Rick tells him about going with Perry the previous night.

“I guess so.”

“ ’s called male bondin’, rook.” Zumaya grins. “I’m proud of you! Your first honest to God strip club!”

Verlander practically materializes out of nowhere next to Zumaya’s locker. “Did somebody say ‘rook’ and ‘strip club’ in the same sentence? All right, li’l Ricky!” Verlander raises his hand and wiggles his fingers, and Rick indulges him with a half-hearted high five. 

“Did you get one of them _private_ shows?” Zumaya asks, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Perry was all over that shit, but, no. Sorry to disappoint. I just watched,” Rick says, feigning shame.

“Dude, you _know_ they’ll do all kinds of freaky shit to you in the back rooms,” Verlander crows, hovering over Zumaya’s shoulder and clapping his hands.

Rick shrugs. “I wasn’t gonna do that with Perry there.”

“You could’ve just dropped him off with a stripper of his own and he wouldn’t have even noticed you was gone,” Zumaya laughs.

“You’ve obviously hung out with Perry before,” Rick says, dryly.

“Nah, I just know his type,” Zumaya says, jerking his thumb toward Verlander. He slings an arm behind Rick’s shoulders. 

“He’s the _gringo_ version of you, Zoom,” Verlander snickers. Zumaya takes a whack at Verlander’s head, but he ducks the blow. “You know it’s true.”

Rick sits back and watches, feeling a mixture of mild amusement and annoyance, as Verlander wraps his long, skinny arms around Zumaya’s chest and knocks him off his stool. The two of them tumble to the carpet and flail ineffectually at one another, giggling and grunting, muttering curses under their breaths. If Rick didn’t know any better, he might think—

Leyland interrupts their horseplay—and Rick’s train of thought—with a wet, gravelly cough and stern, icy glares for both parties involved. “All right, _boys_ ,” he grunts, “pick yourselves up off the floor and start behavin’ like adults. This ain’t a playground.”

Verlander and Zumaya, properly chastened, retreat to their lockers, shoulders slumped in shame. Leyland stomps back to his office and slams the door behind him with a deafening _crack_.

Perry sidles up next to Rick a few minutes later, and crouches down next to his stool. The clubhouse tenor has returned mostly to normal, pre-Leyland explosion, save Verlander and Zumaya, who are both being careful not to draw anymore unwanted attention.

“You wanna go out tonight, after the game?” Perry clasps his hands, resting his arms across his knees.

“I dunno. Last night was kinda rough on my liver,” Rick laughs, patting his midsection where he thinks his liver’s supposed to be.

“Aw, c’mon, man,” Perry complains. “You’re such a stick in the mud. Ver’s right about you.”

Rick raises his eyebrows, morbidly curious. “What’s he say about me, exactly?”

“That you’re a humorless priss,” Perry says. “And that you’ve got the world’s biggest stick permanently wedged between your butt cheeks.”

Rick grumbles. “He _would_ say that.” He glances at Perry. “Maybe you should go hang out with Verlander instead. You two might actually get along.”

“Hey, I wanna hang out with _you_ , li’l Ricky.”

“I’m not gonna hang out with you if you keep calling me li’l Ricky,” Rick whines.

“Aw, shit, you’ll live.” Perry reaches out and nudges him in the shoulder with his fist.

“I dunno about that,” Rick says, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like a Southern belle with a case of the vapors.

Perry pouts. “Dude, cut it out.”

“We’re living together. Shouldn’t I know everything about you? You know, since you've apparently learned all there is to know about me from _Verlander_ , and all.” Rick pretends to fawn over Perry like he imagines Gina might have. He strokes his arm and looks up at him with big, adoring eyes. 

Perry’s neck flushes a light shade of red and he nudges Rick away with his elbow. “Cut it out, dude, that’s gay. And I’m not telling you _any_ thing. It’s humiliating,” he grumbles.

“This is so unfair,” Rick sighs.

“Yeah, nobody ever said life’s fair.” Perry grins.

“ _Ry_ an,” Rick whines in his most annoying voice, the one that drives Zach either up the wall or flying into a homicidal rage.

Perry glares at him, mouth thinning. “Do that again and I’ll brain you with your crosstrainer.” He plucks a shoe out of Rick’s locker and holds it toward him, menacingly.

“ _Ry_ —”

Perry swats Rick in the shoulder with the crosstrainer. “That was a warning shot. Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

“Dude, just tell me. I promise I won’t make fun of you any more than I already do,” Rick says.

“No deal.” Perry waves the shoe.

“C’mon, you know all kinds of shit about me,” Rick complains.

“Like what? That you don’t like strip clubs and apparently can’t hold your liquor too great?” Perry asks, still waving the shoe in the air. “You give me something juicy, something nobody’d suspect perfect li’l Ricky of, and I’ll take it under advisement.”

Rick sighs. The biggest, juiciest thing he can think of is staying under wraps until he’s good and dead, or, at the very least, until he’s got baseball growing smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror. 

“Uh, when I was six, I got stuck in a tree. My parents had to call the fire department to get me out of there.”

Perry wrinkles his brow. “You couldn’t just climb back down?”

“Nah. Once I looked down and saw how small everything looked and how far up from the ground I was, I freaked out and started crying. Zach heard me and went and got my parents, who called the fire department.” Rick shrugs. “What can I say, I was a weird kid.”

“Clearly,” Perry says, shaking his head and laughing. “That’s not juicy enough, though. You _gotta_ have something else you’re not spilling.” He swings his arm back like he’s going to hit Rick with the crosstrainer and he reaches to knock it out of his hand, but Perry holds it out of his reach. “C’mon, deal’s a deal.”

“What, getting stuck in a tree isn’t embarrassing enough for you? You fucking sadist,” Rick scolds.

Perry grins. “Yeah, I am. Deal with it.”

Rick sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair. “You suck.”

Perry gets up and casts a smirk Rick’s way. “Only when asked nicely.” He tosses the crosstrainer into Rick’s locker. “So, you and me. Tonight.”

Rick looks up, thinking he misheard Perry or something. “What?”

“You, me, tonight. We’re going out.”

“Dude, I—”

Perry gives Rick puppy eyes, bats his lashes coquettishly. “Please, Ricky? I’ll make it worth your while.”

Rick feels his neck warm and he prays that he isn’t blushing. “Fine, if only to get you to stop doing that.”

Perry grins. “I win again.”

“Only ’cause I let you,” Rick pouts.

“You give in _way_ too easily, li’l Ricky.” Perry drapes an arm around Rick’s shoulders and tugs him against his chest. “It’ll be freaking epic.”

Rick laughs. “That’s kind of what I’m worried about.”

-

Rick’s lying on his stomach in bed, reading a crappy novel he picked up in the check out line at CVS when Perry announces his presence by banging his fists against the doorframe. 

“Put on something that doesn’t make you look like a Bible salesman. We’re going out.” 

Rick looks up and makes a face, using his finger as a bookmark. “What the fuck are you _wearing_?”

Perry steps into Rick’s room and holds his arms out. “You like?” He’s wearing a black, see-through shirt and tight black leather pants. Rick’s face flushes in secondhand embarrassment. “ ’s my clubbing gear.”

“Clearly,” he says, sitting up. “I refuse to go out with you dressed like that.”

Perry twirls in the doorway, modeling his outfit for Rick. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“I’ll hate the player _and_ the game, thank you very much.” Rick puts his book aside and gets out of bed.

“You’re such a dick,” Perry complains. “C’mon, I got something you can wear.”

“I’m taller than you,” Rick points out.

“By, like, one piddly inch. C’ _mon_.” Perry grabs Rick by the collar of his Polo shirt and tugs him into his room. He lets go and start digging through his dresser drawers, coming up with an ugly teal t-shirt that has spidery gold script on the front. He tosses it into Rick’s chest. “How ’bout this?”

“That’s fucking hideous.” Rick tosses it back. “I’m not wearing that. Actually, I’m not wearing anything of yours.” 

“Okay, fine. What about—” Perry rifles some more through his drawers and comes up with a long-sleeved black t-shirt. He dangles it in front of him. 

“Do I have a choice?” Rick asks.

“No, not really.”

He sighs and snags the shirt from Perry, tugging his Polo off by the collar. “I hope you know I’m never going to forgive you for this.”

“I know. I’ll live.” Perry grins at Rick and leans back against his dresser.

Rick drops his Polo on Perry’s floor in a powder blue puddle and pulls the black t-shirt over his head. “That’s a relief.” He tugs the shirt down and flattens it over his chest. “How’s it look?”

Perry gives him a once-over and chews hard on the inside of his cheek. “A little short, but nobody’ll notice,” he laughs.

Rick looks down. There’s an inch of skin between the bottom of the shirt and the top of his pants. He’s wearing a fucking midriff shirt.

“I’m not wearing this,” Rick says, and raises his arms to pull it off.

“Oh, come on, it looks fine.” Perry grabs the bottom of it and Rick jumps back a little bit, heart leaping up into his throat. Perry scrutinizes him. “Dude, what’s your problem?”

“Nothing. I just wasn’t expecting you to, you know, grab me.” Rick knocks Perry’s hands away. His heart is still thumping wildly in his throat and his fingers are numb and tingling, like they’ve fallen asleep. His palms are clammy too, and he wipes them on his jeans.

“Whatever. Now, the pants.” Perry kicks Rick’s shirt away and pulls out a pair of black leather pants identical to the ones he has on.

“I am _not_ wearing those fucking pants.” He tries to grab them out of Perry’s hand, but he holds them out of Rick’s reach.

“We can be twins! Like the guys from _Night at the Roxbury_!”

“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, and I am not putting on those pants!” Rick says.

“Didn’t you see the movie? Or the Saturday Night Live skit?” Perry starts jerking his head awkwardly, and it looks like maybe he’s having a stroke or something.

“No, I didn’t. And I’m not putting on those pants. I’ll wear what I’ve got on.” Rick gestures to the blue jeans he’s wearing.

“I won’t be caught dead in a club with you wearing dad jeans,” Perry scoffs.

“Dude, these aren’t fucking dad jeans,” Rick says. “I got these at—”

“Just shut up and put these on.” Perry tosses the leather pants in Rick’s face and goes to sit on his bed. He crosses his arms over his chest and taps his foot impatiently.

Rick glares at him. “I’m not gonna change in front of you, either.” 

“Dude, we change in front of each other all the time,” Perry snorts. 

“I’d like to retain at least a _sliver_ of dignity here, if you don’t mind,” Rick says, gesturing to the t-shirt. Perry snickers behind his hand. “So. I’m going to go change.” He turns and heads back to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

Rick looks at the leather pants and wrinkles his nose. He still puts them on, though. Rick has a feeling—bone-deep—that he’s going to regret agreeing to this, that Perry will somehow get them into embarrassing situation after embarrassing situation, but whatever. 

They’re young and rich. They can afford regret once in a while.

-

It’s late, late, _late_ when they finally make it back to their apartment and Rick is fucking blasted out of his mind. He had way too many shots of shitty tequila and then he and Perry did Jäger bombs until he started losing chunks of time and finally just blacked out in the back of a taxi.

When he comes to, he’s sprawled facedown on Perry’s bedroom floor with a sock on his ear. Rick has no idea how the hell he got back into their apartment, or why he’s mostly naked, save his briefs or the sock on his fucking ear. The leather pants are bunched around his knees and he struggles the rest of the way out of them.

Rick sits up slowly and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. The inside of his mouth tastes like puke, and maybe he’s kind of glad he doesn’t remember most of the night after all.

“Ryan?” Rick looks around for Perry, but as far as he can tell, Perry isn’t in his bed. He doesn’t even know if it’s day or night—hell, he doesn’t even really know where he is at the moment. This might not even be their apartment.

Rick picks himself up off the floor and pads out of the room and down the hall.

Perry is in the kitchen, scrambling eggs in a frying pan.

“G’morning,” Perry says, not looking up from the pan.

“Morning. What happened last night?” Rick scratches himself on the stomach and collapses in one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

“We got really, _really_ drunk.” Perry pokes at the eggs with a spatula and looks over at Rick. He flashes him a grin. “You’re hilarious when you’re wasted. I kinda wish I had a Camcorder on me.”

Rick tears his hands through his hair, making it stick straight up. “Fuck. What did I do?”

“ ‘What _didn’t_ you do’ might be the more appropriate question.” Perry scoops the eggs onto two plates and brings them over to the table. He sets one down in front of Rick and takes a seat. “You were a one-man wreckin’ crew, dude. I’m so proud of you!”

Rick picks up a fork and spins it between his fingers. “Anything specific?”

Perry shrugs. “You flirted with pretty much anything that moved.”

Rick can practically feel himself go white. His left arm feels sort of tingly too, and he wonders if he’s stroking out. “ _Anything_?”

“Yeah.” Perry nods to him, stretching his mouth into a grim straight line. “Ugly chicks. Fat chicks. Chicks old enough to be your mom. Gross looking chicks with too much spray-on tan, drowning in cheap perfume. You name it, you flirted with it.”

“Wow. This is why I try not to get drunk,” Rick says, rubbing his temple.

“It was pretty funny, actually,” Perry says.

“Like I said.” Rick starts eating. “I didn’t get, um, unlucky or anything, did I?”

“Nah. You were pretty thoroughly shot down all night.” Perry smirks. “ _I_ , on the other hand, got lucky a couple times in the bathroom stall.”

“Oh, ew.” Rick gags on his eggs. “That’s so fucking disgusting. Don’t you know how _unsanitary_ that is?”

“Dude, that’s kind of the point. Flirting with danger and shit,” Perry says.

“Flirting with a million different STDs and probably e. coli too, you mean.” Rick polishes off the rest of his scrambled eggs and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

“It’s not like we fucked on a scummy toilet seat or something,” Perry says, through a mouthful of eggs, pointing his fork at Rick. “It was just blowjobs.”

“Still, though.” Rick shakes his head.

“You’ve never gotten a blowjob in a bathroom stall before?” Perry sounds incredulous.

“No,” Rick says, shaking his head. “I prefer to get my blowjobs in places where I can’t get e. coli.”

“You’re no fun. You gotta live a little.” Perry sits back and kicks his bare feet up on the table, narrowly missing his plate.

Rick shakes his head and stacks the dishes. “Yeah, I can do that without getting blowjobs in nasty bathroom stalls.” 

Rick picks the plates up and carries them to the sink. He opens the drawer next to the sink and starts digging through various bottles of pills for something to help him with his headache. He settles on a bottle of Excedrin and uncaps it, shaking a couple chalky white pills into his palm.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Perry sing-songs after him.

Rick turns and rolls his eyes at him. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“I wasn’t offering you a blowjob,” Perry snorts.

Rick chokes down the pills and chases them with a glass of lukewarm tap water. “I wasn’t asking for one,” he retorts. A wad of balled up paper towel hits Rick in the back of the head and he turns to glare at Perry, who throws up his hands and feigns innocence.

Perry shrugs. “I was aiming for the trash can.”

“Cute.” Rick bends down, picks up the wad of paper towel, and drops it in the trash.

“About time you noticed.” Perry opens the fridge, grabs a carton of orange juice, and elbows the door shut. 

Rick drops the plastic bottle of Excedrin back in the drawer. “Sorry, I don’t really make it a habit to check my teammates out,” he says, jamming the overstuffed drawer closed. He can hear the pills rattle around in their bottles.

“Right, my bad.” Perry rips open the carton and drinks right from it. “Anyways, I was thinking a little this morning while I was taking a dump—”

“Uh oh?” Rick looks up, a cold feeling swooping through his insides.

“Yeah, I was thinking we should rent an apartment together, when we make it to the Show,” Perry says, lowering the orange juice carton.

“You think we’re both gonna make it to Detroit,” Rick asks, chuffing out a disbelieving laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but that’s probably not going to happen.”

“Where’s your faith, man?” Perry stares at Rick, nose wrinkled like he just smelled something rotten. “You don’t think we’re gonna make it?”

“That’s not what I said,” Rick says, marching over to Perry and grabbing the orange juice from him. He twists the plastic cap back in place. “It’s just, we’re both in only our second year of pro ball. How many guys make the jump from high A to the Show anyway?”

“Verlander did it,” Perry says, with a pout.

“Verlander’s a freak. Forget him,” Rick says. “I’m just saying.”

Perry whips an arm out, lightning-quick, and grabs the juice from Rick. He rips the cap back off and takes another swig from the carton. “And _I’m_ just saying I think we should get an apartment together in Detroit,” he says, gesturing at Rick with the juice.

“Okay, fine,” Rick says, sighing heavily. “If it’ll shut you up.”

Perry beams. “Psh. Not likely.”

Rick laughs. “I didn’t think so, but it was worth a try.”

-

They both make the Major League roster out of Spring Training, and the first thing Rick does, when he finds out, is call home. 

Jake answers with a tired groan. “ ’lo?”

“Jake, it’s me. Are Mom and Dad around?”

“Yeah, Mom’s making breakfast and Dad went out to get the mail. What’s up?” Jake asks.

“I made it!” Rick says, excitement breaking his voice into pieces, making him sound like he’s fourteen again. He just barely manages not to cringe in embarrassment. “I’m going to Detroit!”

“Arright, man,” Jake hollers, whooping. There’s a loud crash and the shattering of glass on the other end. “Man, Ricky, this is great! No more morose motherfucker from you, okay?”

Rick’s sitting in the middle of his bedroom, a duffel bag at his side, all his stuff strewn about. He knew he’d be packing today, but he never thought he’d be packing for Detroit. High A Lakeland. _Maybe_ Double A Erie, but never Detroit. It feels surreal and dreamlike, and Rick has to pinch himself on the arm just to be sure. He does so, pinching himself in the crook of his elbow, kind of hard.

It’s not a dream. This is really happening. He and Perry are going to Detroit together.

“All right, all right,” Rick promises, laughing. “No more morose motherfucker. Swear to God.”

“You better, or I’m gonna come kick your ass,” Jake warns him. “Fuck everybody who says college’s the time of your life. _This_ is the time of your life.”

Rick laughs. He wonders why it took him so long to call Jake because his brother always knows how to put things into the proper perspective. “You’re right, of course.”

“I’m always right,” Jake says, without a hint of irony.

“Put Mom on. I wanna tell her the news,” he says.

“Okay,” Jake says. “ _Mom_! Rick’s on the phone! I think he got himself arrested!”

“You little shit,” Rick yells.

“Ricky, why are you cursing? What happened?”

“Sorry, Mom. Nothing happened. Jake’s just being a brat,” Rick says. “I have good news!”

“Oh?” His mom sounds expectant, and he can tell she knows, just from the tone of his voice, that he’s made it, that he’s going to the Show.

“Mom, I made it.”

“Oh, Ricky,” his mom says. He can hear his dad yelling in the background, excitably, and Jake is whooping it up right along with him. “I’m so _proud_ of you!”

He grins to himself. “Me and my roomie, Ryan, we both made it.”

His mom starts sniffling and Rick braces himself for the onslaught of tears. “Your father and I are so, _so_ proud of you, honey. We can’t wait to see you.”

Rick can hear more hollering in the background. “Thanks, Mom. Can’t wait to see you guys either.”

“Do you know when you’ll make your debut,” his mom asks, audibly holding back tears.

Rick smiles a little at that. “Not sure yet. Mr. Leyland will let me know, and then I’ll call you. Okay?”

“Okay,” his mom says, sighing. “Honey, I am _so_ , so—”

“I know, Mom,” Rick interrupts, unable to keep the grin off his face now. “I can’t wait to see you guys.”

“Can’t wait to see you either. ’Bye, honey.”

“ ’Bye, Mom.” Rick ends the call and looks down at his cell phone. The screen blinks at him— **ten new messages** —and he realizes his brother must have gone and called or texted the guys from their high school team with the news.

Rick’s in the middle of firing off some thank-you-for-the-well-wishes texts to his buddies when there’s a knock on the door.

“C’mon in, it’s unlocked.” Rick sets his cell phone aside and picks two denim button-downs up off the pile on his bed. 

“Yoink.” Perry rips both of the shirts out of Rick’s hands. “You don’t need any of that shit.”

“C’mon, man, give me my shirts back.” Rick makes a grab for them, but Perry holds them out of his reach.

“Vets are taking us out to shop for suits before we jet off to Toronto,” Perry says, tossing the shirts on the bed. “Who the fuck wears denim shirts anymore, anyways? Are you, like, sixty?”

“Shut up. At least I don’t talk about the shit you wear.” Rick shoves some more clothes into his duffel. “How much Ed Hardy can one guy own?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that, Dad Jeans.” Perry flops on top of Rick’s mound of clothes and spreads his arms and legs out like he’s going to do snow angels or something.

“Dude, get off my shit.” Rick tries to shoo him away, but Perry doesn’t budge.

“I think we should go out, celebrate,” Perry says, folding his arms under his head.

Rick sighs, packing momentarily forgotten. “Sure. Where?”

“Dunno, that place we went the last time.” 

Perry arches his back, and his t-shirt rides up his stomach a little to show a flash of pale skin. A couple thoughts flit through Rick’s head: _why is his stomach so pale, we’re in_ Florida _for God’s sake_ and then _that’s a nice stomach_. Then Perry belches loudly and tugs his shirt back down, and the spell is broken. Rick nudges him aside and picks up some orphaned, mismatched socks.

“Sure, fine by me.” Rick shrugs and tosses the socks into his bag too.

Perry grins at him, eyes sparking. “We’re gonna tear some shit up tonight.”

-

Rick makes his debut in Toronto about a week later. He doesn’t pitch too badly, but he doesn’t pitch particularly well either. It’s a forgettable Major League debut, and he can already picture the writers chalking him up as a disappointment because he didn’t live up to all the hype and attention paid to him since he was a hot-shot prospect.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Perry tells him on the bus ride back to their Toronto hotel.

Rick shrugs. He’s spent the last couple hours replaying every pitch in his mind, trying to pinpoint exactly where he went wrong. He knows Perry’s just trying to be reassuring, but Rick’s really not in the mood to hear it.

“It didn’t quite go the way I was hoping,” Rick finally says, after a few long moments of silence, as he tries to pick his words carefully.

Perry plucks his iPod earbuds out and shakes his head at Rick. “Look, man, you were fine. It was your first Major League appearance. You were nervous or whatever, no big deal.”

“I’m not supposed to let the nerves get to me,” Rick says.

“You’re not Superman. Nerves happen.”

“I know. And it’s just one start. I was just hoping to put on a better show for my parents and my brother,” Rick says.

“You’re right, it’s just one start. You’ve got another one in five days,” Perry says. He sticks the earbuds back into his ears, but Rick can still hear the music and Perry thumbs the volume down. “You wanna go out when we get back to Detroit?”

 _And that’s that_ , Rick thinks. He glances out the window, watches the CN Tower grow smaller and smaller until it looks like a tall, thin needle against the darkening Toronto skyline.

“Where were you thinking?” Rick asks, glancing back over at Perry.

“I was thinking of Tonic, in Pontiac,” Perry says.

“Why don’t we just stay in tonight? I still need to unpack all my shit,” Rick says.

“Okay, Grandma,” Perry says, laughing. “ _You_ can stay in tonight and _I’ll_ go out and be social.”

Rick socks him lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t be a douche. Maybe I just don’t feel like going out to another night club tonight. It’s, like, _all_ we did in Lakeland.”

Perry rubs his shoulder, mostly for show because Rick definitely didn’t hit him that hard. “Dude, we can get into just about any club we want. Especially in Detroit. Why wouldn’t you wanna take advantage of that?”

Rick sighs. “Just don’t feel like it tonight.”

“You’re just moping ’cause you lost,” Perry says.

“I’m not,” Rick says, and he’s not, really. He’s allowed to not want to get shitfaced every once in a while. It doesn’t make him lame or weird or a loser either, thank you very much. He doesn’t understand why Perry can’t seem to get that.

“Dude, you kinda are,” Perry says. “It’s fine, though. We don’t need to hang out.”

Rick sighs. “Are you going to be pissy now?”

“I’m not being pissy,” Perry replies with an injured sniff. “You just never seem to wanna do what I wanna do. You’re kinda a buzzkill sometimes.”

Rick glares at him. “Hey, I am not. I go out with you all the time and I don’t say a single word. Maybe I’m just tired of all the clubs.”

“I really don’t get how anyone could be tired of—”

“Ryan, that’s not the point,” Rick interrupts, turning in his seat so that he’s facing Perry.

“Okay, fine, man,” Perry says, throwing up his hands. “Forget I brought it up.” Perry turns and leans across the aisle to tap a slumbering Zumaya on the knee. Zumaya splutters awake, spittle flying, and pretty much everyone starts laughing, except Rick.

He slides down lower in his seat and bumps his temple against the cool pane of glass. The gray road, dulled by the slight tint of the window, passes under them in a blur. 

Rick closes his eyes and allows the sway of the bus to lull him into a shallow, restless sleep.

-

“You and Perry havin’ a lover’s spat or what?”

Rick looks up; Verlander’s propped himself against Rick’s locker, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a Cheshire grin that Rick doesn’t quite trust.

“What’re you talking about?” Rick asks, playing dumb. He laces his crosstrainers and jumps up from his stool, windmilling his arms and bouncing on his heels.

“The two of you haven’t said a single word to each other since Seattle,” Verlander says, hiking a bushy eyebrow in Perry’s direction. Perry, who usually lockers next to Rick, has been glommed onto Zumaya’s side since the flight to Seattle. And if Verlander’s noticed the sudden distance between the two of them, surely everyone else has too. Rick can only begin to imagine what the others are thinking now.

He merely shrugs. “So? Doesn’t mean we’re having a _lover’s_ spat,” he mutters.

Verlander slings an arm around Rick’s shoulders and tugs him close. “I’m taking you out tonight.”

Rick slips out from under Verlander’s arm. “Oh, no. Not you too.”

“ _Yes_ , me too. You and me are goin’ out tonight,” Verlander enunciates slowly, putting his hands on Rick’s shoulders and holding him still. “I’m gonna get you laid if it’s the last thing I do on God’s green earth.”

“I hate you,” Rick says, emphatically.

“No you don’t,” Verlander says, shaking Rick by the shoulders gently. “You need to—to, I don’t know, get outta your head. And chicks are the answer.”

“Justin—”

“Don’t ‘Justin’ me, kid. It’s already been decided,” Verlander says, letting him go. “You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

“I think I’m going to need _therapy_ when I’m older, thanks to you,” Rick grumbles.

“Whatever. You know I’m right.” Verlander pounds him on the back and grins. “Look alive, rook.”

-

There’s a big, blonde stripper gyrating in Rick’s lap and Verlander’s in the middle of a blowjob when Rick realizes, with stunning clarity like a blow to the head, that he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be ground into a chair by a woman who’s probably somebody’s wife or mom, and he really doesn’t want to be in the same room as Verlander while he’s getting a blowjob, either.

The stripper is okay—lots of curly blonde hair, big tits, a firm ass—but she’s not really his type. He’s gripping her by the waist—she told Rick she’s not supposed to let the guys touch her, but she’ll make an exception _just for him_ , and he thinks he’s supposed to feel special or something—and trying to follow her movements with his eyes, but it’s too dark in this room. He catches the occasional flash of her jewelry in the dim lighting. 

“Oh, fuck.” Verlander makes a guttural noise deep in his throat, and Rick squeezes the stripper by the waist in response.

She pauses, resting a hand on his thigh. “You like that?” Her hair brushes against his cheek; she smells like hyacinths—what the fuck?—and cigarette smoke.

“Like what?” Rick asks, voice sticking in his throat.

“Justin and Mimi,” she purrs.

Rick shakes his head. “I, I, yeah, sure,” he stammers.

The stripper slides her hand slowly up his thigh and he tenses. The thought of doing _anything_ with this woman while Verlander is in the same room makes his stomach do flips. A million thoughts flash through his mind— _what if Verlander looks at me what if_ I _look at Verlander what if Mom calls what if_ Perry _calls_ —and then he realizes he’s squeezing her too tightly when she digs her nails into his arm. He lets up, feeling a little guilty and not entirely sure why.

“You’re too tense,” she says, shifting in his lap so that she can tug on his waistband. She lets it snap back against his waist. “You need to loosen up, kid.”

“I like myself just the way I am,” he says, and adds, in afterthought, “and please don’t call me kid. It’s kind of weird.”

She laughs and flips her hair behind her shoulder. “All right. What should I call you?”

“Rick,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Stacey,” she says.

He moves his hand to her knee, pokes his index finger into a rip in her nylons. “Okay, Stacey. I’m game.”

Stacey flashes him a smile and slides out of his lap, reaching behind to unclasp her studded bra. “That’s what I thought.” She lets the bra drop to her feet and steps over it, settling back into Rick’s lap. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean?” He hadn’t thought fucking a stripper would come with a game of 20 Questions as foreplay.

“What do you want me to _do_ ,” she says, laughing, as she plays with the collar of his shirt.

He glances quickly over at Verlander. Verlander’s cupping the back of Mimi’s head in his big hands, fingers twisting in her dark hair, fucking his dick in and out of her mouth roughly. Rick’s stomach flutters, and he suddenly feels sick. The sickness rises in him like a wave, threatening to get out.

“I, I—” Rick can’t spit it out.

“You want me to blow you?” Stacey sounds like an indulgent parent, and that only serves to make his stomach twist even more. She strokes his thigh.

“No, yes, I don’t know,” he says in a single breath, “I can’t do this, I’m sorry.” He pushes Stacey out of his lap and jumps to his feet, preparing to bolt.

Stacey reaches out and touches the back of his wrist. “Hey, what’s the matter, kid?”

“I’ve wasted your time, I’m sorry.” He pulls hand away from her and digs his wallet out of his back pocket. He tries to shove a couple twenties at her, but she pushes his hand away.

“Your friend’s got you covered,” she says.

He can still hear Verlander fucking that girl’s mouth, the sloppy squelches sounding way too loud in his ears, and if he doesn’t get out of this room he’ll explode.

The room starts spinning in circles overhead, and Verlander starts hissing things under his breath. Rick hazards a glance in his direction; Verlander still has a hand clamped at the back of that girl’s head, fingers curled in her hair, hips jerking. The girl is digging into Verlander’s thigh with long, glossy red nails. Rick looks away quickly and his stomach lurches.

“Hey, where’s he goin’? Ricky, where’re you goin’?” Verlander calls out threadily, voice hazy with lust and confusion.

Rick glances back over his shoulder, despite himself. Verlander’s dick, still half-hard and slick with spit, come, _whatever_ is flopped over his thigh, and Mimi is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Rick catches her eye and she winks at him. The funny feeling in his stomach tightens, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

“I dunno, I think he’s sick,” Stacey says, stumbling back over to the chair Rick had been sitting in. She retrieves her bra and collapses on the chair in a heap.

“Can’t handle his alcohol,” Verlander laughs, stretching like a cat, arching his back. He lets out a satisfied groan and reaches down, tucks himself into his boxers. “Lightweight.”

“Yeah, sorry, I think I’m gonna puke. Gonna call a taxi, or something,” Rick mumbles, groping along the wall for the door. His fingers close around the cool metal doorknob and turn it. “You can, uh, have Stacey and Mimi for yourself.”

Verlander scratches a hand through his hair. “Aw, c’mon, man, you can’t bail on me now.” 

“I’m gonna fucking _puke_ if I don’t get out of here,” Rick says, desperate to escape. He feels claustrophobic now, the overpowering smell of sex creeping in on him.

“Oh, fine,” Verlander says, turning his attention to Mimi and Stacey, flashing them his trademark douchebag smirk. “You snooze, you lose.” He dismisses Rick with a hand wave. 

Rick opens the door and slips out.

-

Rick’s curled up in bed with his laptop, scrolling through pages upon pages of cat macros, when Perry barges in and flops on him, their petty argument in Toronto apparently forgotten. 

“Shit, Ryan, be careful.” Rick holds his computer out of the way and shields it from Perry with his body.

Perry starts laughing and rolls onto his back, squints up at the ceiling. “I had a great night,” he giggles, resting his hands over his chest.

“Oh?” Rick sets his laptop on his nightstand, safely out of Perry’s reach.

“Yeah. I met this girl,” Perry gushes. “She had an ass like—God, Ricky, I’ve never seen an ass like this.” He outlines the shape of her ass in the air with his hands.

Rick sighs and presses his thumb between his eyes. “Uh, congrats, I guess? What’s her name?” He tucks his knees against his chest and wraps his arms around them.

“Vanessa,” Perry says, sounding awed. “Vanessa. That’s a beautiful name, don’t you think? _Vanessa_.”

Rick shrugs. “It’s alright.”

Perry props himself up on his elbow and gives Rick a disapproving look. “Vanessa’s a fuckin’ _beautiful_ name, and don’t you forget it.”

“Fine, whatever, Ryan. It’s beautiful,” Rick says, trying his best to sound bored and disinterested. “Am I going to get an invitation to the wedding?”

Perry laughs and punches Rick in the calf. “ _Dude_ , I just met this girl, like, tonight. I’m not picking out china patterns with her or anything,” he snorts.

Rick manages a smile. “Well, sounds like you’re really into her. She must be a great girl,” he says, rubbing at his calf.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Perry looks at him, his eyes suspicious, worried.

“What?” Rick asks. “What are you talking about?”

“You sound kinda—weren’t you s’posed to go clubbing with Verlander tonight?” Perry asks, sitting up and tucking his legs under his frame. “Actually, I wasn’t expecting to see you ’til sometime tomorrow morning.”

“Verlander ditched me to hook up with a couple strippers,” Rick lies effortlessly, with a small shrug. He doesn’t even feel the slightest bit guilty. “I caught a taxi back.”

“He just ditched you? That’s shitty of him, man,” Perry says.

“It’s okay. I was feeling like a third wheel anyway,” Rick says. He pauses. “Actually, make that a fourth wheel.”

“Still,” Perry says. He holds out his fist to Rick. “Bros before hos, man.”

Rick laughs and manages a real smile, bumping his fist against Perry’s in an act of solidarity. “Bros before hos.”

Perry grins and drapes his arm loosely around Rick’s shoulders. “You know, the night is still fairly young. You wanna hit up an arcade?” He tugs Rick into his chest and grinds his knuckles in his hair.

“Ow, Ryan! Stop!” Rick flails ineffectually against Perry’s sneak noogie attack.

“Promise me you’ll come with me to an arcade, then.” Perry raps his knuckles against the top of Rick’s head.

“Fine, fine. I’ll go with you to an arcade. Stop fucking up my hair.”

Perry lets go of Rick and grins at him. “Lemme call Vanessa. Maybe she’s got a hot model friend she can bring along for you,” he says, climbing off the bed to retrieve his phone.

Rick grabs onto Perry’s hand and tugs him back. “Hey, wait, didn’t you just say ‘bros before hos’?”

Perry shrugs. “It can be just the two of us, then,” he says, grinning. “You can meet Vanessa some other time. And, for the record, she’s not a ho.”

Rick grins at Perry, still holding onto his hand. “Thanks, Ryan. You’re the best.”

Perry beams. “I know.” He gives Rick’s hand a light squeeze before slipping his away. “You’re awfully lucky to have me.”

Rick laughs and rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I know,” he says.

-

Rick finally gets his first Major League win a week and a half later in Seattle. Verlander nails him in the face with a shaving cream pie during his post-game interview, and then Perry, Verlander and Zumaya dump celebratory beers on his head when he steps into the visitors’ clubhouse.

“Shit, it stings.” Rick winces, wiping beer and shaving cream off his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Soak it up, kid,” Verlander crows, cracking open another beer. “Just don’t drink it. Don’t wanna get in trouble for corruptin’ a minor.”

Rick bites back a laugh and blinks his eyes open. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Verlander pours another beer over Rick’s head, wearing a full grin as opposed to the smug smirk he’s made his trademark. “Of course not.” He crumples his empty beer cans and drops them in the trash. “How’re we gonna celebrate this momentous occasion?”

“If you say ‘go clubbing,’ I’m going to kill you,” Rick says, shaking his head like a dog, spraying beer and foamy shaving cream all over the place.

“I got us VIP passes to Trinity,” Verlander says, the tone of his voice indicating to Rick that he should be impressed or something.

Rick just shrugs. “I think I’ll pass.”

“You _can’t_ pass. This’s in honor of _you_ , dumbass,” Verlander chides, pulling a shiny laminated VIP pass out of his locker stall. He dangles it on its neck cord in front of Rick’s face, enticingly.

“I’ve decided to swear off night clubs and strip joints for the foreseeable future,” Rick says.

“Aw, come on. One bad night and suddenly you’re a fuckin’ monk,” Verlander says, close to a whine.

Rick curls his hands into fists at his sides. “Yeah. What of it?”

Verlander huffs petulantly. “Whatever. I’ll just give your pass to—to _Miner_.” He strides across the clubhouse and shoves the VIP pass into a very confused Zach Miner’s hand, before heading to the showers.

Miner glances after Verlander and then holds up the pass by its cord. “Did I miss something?”

“Yeah, man, it’s a long story,” Rick sighs. “Don’t worry about it.” He sits in front of his stall heavily, and rubs his hands through his damp, sticky hair. A hand lands on his shoulder and Rick looks up; Perry looks down at him and shakes his head.

“What?” Rick asks, his tone sharp. If Perry gives it to him like Verlander, he might end up biting his head off.

“Nothing. You just look like—I dunno.” Perry shrugs and gives Rick’s shoulder a shake. “He was just trying to be nice, you know.”

“He probably just wanted to rub it in my face,” Rick mutters.

Perry blinks in confusion. “Rub _what_ in your face?”

Rick sighs again and drops his head in his hands. “Nothing.” He tugs at his hair. “It’s not a big deal.”

Perry slips his hand away. “Okay, man, whatever. Your loss.”

Rick drops his hands and catches Perry wandering across the clubhouse to Zumaya’s locker. Zumaya greets Perry with a big bear hug, like they’ve known each other forever, and for a split second, Rick resents them both. Resents Perry for finding someone like Zumaya, someone on the team he can relate to on more levels than he can with Rick, and he resents Zumaya for—

Rick immediately shuts down that line of thinking. It’s not Perry’s or Zumaya’s fault he can’t stand Verlander. If anything, it’s his fault for being crazy and petty. Possibly Verlander’s for being a dick. Rick starts peeling off his soaked fleece. He smells sour, like cheap beer, and would it have killed them to at least douse him in the _good_ stuff?

He grabs his shampoo, soap, and a towel and heads for the showers.

Rick selects a shower stall and pulls the plastic curtain in place, draping his towel over a rack. He fiddles with the shower knobs, and steps into a blast of cool water that’s prickly against his bare skin. He tilts his head against the tiles and closes his eyes. Rick tries to pick out threads of conversation amidst the steady beat of water against his back, but his brain won’t cooperate and he gives up.

Slowly, as the water warms, all the shit with Verlander and Perry and Zumaya begins melting away until, for just a little while, none of it matters anymore.

-

Rick wakes to his bedroom door creaking open. He raises his head from his pillow, blinking blearily, and turns on the lamp on his nightstand.

Perry shuts the door behind him and leans back against it, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He’s obviously _very_ drunk; Rick can smell the alcohol on him from across the room. He’s kind of amazed Perry is still standing.

“Ryan? What’s up?” Rick sits up and rubs his fists into his eyes.

Perry opens his eyes and smiles, shrugging. “I had a—a crisis of conscious,” Perry says.

“You mean a crisis of conscience?” Rick suggests.

“Sure, whatever,” Perry says, coming over and sitting next to Rick in bed. “I had a crisis of conscious an’ I hadda come back here.”

“Okay,” Rick says, shaking his head, confused.

Perry grins lopsidedly at him. “I mean, it’s fucked up that we went out to celebrate your first Major League win without you there, isn’t it?” Perry flops next to Rick and pulls a pillow under his head. “If we’re celebratin’ you, you should be there.”

“It’s okay, man. I just didn’t feel like going out,” he says, settling next to Perry.

Perry places his hand over Rick’s chest and closes his eyes. “I know,” he says, yawning so wide Rick can see his tonsils. He smacks his lips. “ ’s why I had my crisis of conscious.”

“Because I wasn’t there?” Rick glances down at Perry’s hand on his chest, watches as it rises with every breath he takes.

“Yeah.” Perry nuzzles his forehead against Rick’s neck and wraps his arm high around his waist.

Rick closes his eyes and sighs, offering up a silent prayer for strength. “Uh, thanks, I guess,” he says, gently pushing Perry’s arm away.

Perry opens his eyes and sits up beside him. “Ricky?”

“Yeah?” Rick asks.

“I—I—” Perry falters and rubs his hands over his face, letting out a frustrated groan.

“What is it, Ryan?”

Perry lowers his hands and smiles dopily, eyes squinched nearly shut. “Nothin’, lost my train of thought,” he says, reaching out and raffling his fingers through Rick’s hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ricky. G’night.” Perry slips out of Rick’s bed and shuffles to the door.

“ ’Night, Ryan,” Rick calls after him. He pulls the covers up and tucks his arms over his chest.

Rick stares at the ceiling until he loses track of time and falls into a series of fitful dreams he doesn’t remember when he wakes.

-

“So your teammates are assholes,” Jake says, “big deal.”

Rick props his feet up on the coffee table and channel surfs idly. Perry is out doing something with Zumaya, of course, and Verlander’s finally stopped bugging him to hang out. It’s boring and way too quiet in the apartment, just barely on the other side of unsettling. He almost misses Verlander harassing him daily to go clubbing with him. _Almost_.

“They’re not all assholes. Just Verlander, I guess. Zumaya’s okay.” Rick lingers on Animal Planet and watches a big cat, a cheetah or something, pounce on a fragile looking gazelle and tear it to pieces.

“You know, if I were you, I wouldn’t be such a morose motherfucker,” Jake scolds. Rick can hear honking horns and the rush of cars whizzing by.

“Where are you?”

“Me and Zach were on our way to Wendy’s,” Jake says. Rick can hear Zach hollering at shitty Jersey drivers in the background. “Anyways, back to the issue at hand. If I were a fucking Major League stud, I wouldn’t be spending all my time moping about how Verlander likes to pick on me and Zumaya stole my best friend. I’d fucking do something about it.”

“Wendy’s? Coach would be proud,” Rick says, ignoring the rest of Jake’s diatribe.

“Wait. Weren’t we talking about you, and your terminal lack of balls?”

Rick flips to some other station. A hard-faced blonde with a severe haircut is berating a group of people in a beauty salon. “Yeah, we were.”

“So, what’re you gonna do about it?” Jake asks.

“Nothing, probably,” he says. “Just hope it goes away and leave it at that.”

Jake is silent for a few moments, and Rick listens to his heavy, vaguely annoyed breathing, Zach howling indignantly in the background, and angry drivers slamming on their horns. Finally, he speaks. “Are we still talking about Verlander being a jerk?”

Rick frowns. “What else would we be talking about?”

“The whole Perry thing,” Jake says.

“ _What_ whole Perry thing?” Rick asks. He really doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

“Oh, you know.” Jake sighs heavily, not elaborating.

“No, I don’t. You’ll have to start speaking in complete sentences,” Rick quips.

“Dude, don’t make me come out and say it, okay?” Jake sounds like he’s finally breaking under the weight of some great secret. The thought makes Rick bristle.

“Just spit it out, Jake, for fuck’s sake.” Rick knocks his cell phone once against his forehead, out of frustration, before shoving it back between his ear and his shoulder. He grabs the remote and begins flipping through channels again, settles on MLB Network and drops it on the coffee table with a satisfying _crack_.

Jake sighs again, forces out a weak laugh. “You got a thing for your roommate. Big deal, so you’re a fa—so you like dudes. Whatever. Right?”

“What? I don’t like—” Rick starts, but Jake interrupts.

“Come on, Rick,” he says. “You’re a shitty liar. You always have been. I bet your ears are turning red as we speak.”

Rick reaches up and touches the shell of his ear, almost reflexively, and scowls. “Listen, Jake, I don’t know where you got this idea that I’m into guys, but I’m not—”

“Fine, you’re not,” Jake cuts him off again. “You’re one hundred percent hetero. That make you feel better?”

“No, not really,” Rick says.

“All right. Look, I gotta go, man, or else I’m gonna get into an accident. Keep treading water, okay? I’ll talk to you later.” Rick can hear Zach howling about something in the background as Jake hangs up.

Rick drops his phone on the coffee table next to the remote and rubs his hands through his hair, wondering when his and Jake’s positions in the family hierarchy changed and Jake became the responsible, wise one who gave out advice like a Pez candy dispenser and Rick became the one taking it.

He grabs the remote, turns the TV off, and gets up to go out for a jog.

-

They all try to give him advice, like they know better because they’ve been there before. Maybe there’s some truth in that since they’re here, in the Majors, but still.

Rick knows they mean well, for the most part. He’s not too sure about Verlander, though. Things have been really weird between the two of them since Strippergate—Rick’s taken to calling it that in his head—and neither of them have exactly gone out of their way to clear the air. Verlander still includes him in the baseball stuff, like working out, watching video, training, pitching advice, but Rick doesn’t get invited out anymore when the guys go clubbing in strange towns. Not that he minds, considering the last time went _so_ well, but it’s the principle of the matter.

Rick’s also pretty sure Verlander thinks he’s gay now. _Like, what guy wouldn’t be into going to a club and doing a stripper?_ the obnoxious, nasally Verlander-voice in the back of Rick’s head says; also, the fact he has a Verlander-voice in his head—acting as his _conscience_ , no less—is a very scary thought Rick doesn’t want to look at too closely.

 _So, that’s two teammates who aren’t really talking to me much anymore_.

A couple days ago, Perry had moved the stuff out of his locker next to Rick’s and set up shop by Zumaya. Rick had tried not to act like it bothered him, and he’d done a pretty good job of appearing cool and unaffected, but it still did sting. 

_Is Perry gonna ask to break the lease on our apartment next? Maybe he’ll move in with Zumaya and his wife. Maybe they’ll adopt him,_ Rick thinks, meanly. And he knows it’s unfair, too, because Zumaya’s been good to him. He’s been one of the few guys who’ll give Rick some of his time when he’s got some shit on his mind.

The veterans, the old guys who’ve been around for the longest, are no good to talk to because they have their own sets of problems to deal with. He can’t talk to Robertson and Galarraga because they’re both having shitty seasons and not dealing all too well, ready to snap at anyone that approaches them, like injured dogs nursing open wounds. Jackson’s actually kind of cool, and Rick likes him a lot, but he’s not really a veteran, and he’s not exactly someone Rick sees himself going to for advice on how to keep his head above water. And Verlander—well, Verlander’s Verlander.

So, Zumaya it is.

“You’re gonna have to talk to him eventually.”

Rick looks over at Zumaya, realizing he wasn’t paying attention and has no idea who Zumaya’s even talking about. “Who? Perry?”

They’re both camped out in front of Rick’s locker while he gets ready for that night’s game. Perry’s nowhere to be found, for once, which is kind of nice. Rick idly wonders if he and Perry should set up visiting hours with Zumaya, put it on a piece of paper or something.

“Verlander,” Zumaya says, raising bushy, caterpillar-like eyebrows at Rick. “That’s what we were talkin’ about, right?”

“Oh, right. Now I remember,” Rick lies. He bends down to lace up his crosstrainers. Jake’s crosstrainers. Whatever. “Yeah, I guess. It’d be kind of hard not to, considering I have to see him every day for, like, the next nine months.”

“Well, yeah. And he’s not a bad guy. Really, he’s not,” Zumaya says, sitting back and kicking up his heels.

“Easy for you to say,” Rick grumbles. “You guys have been friends for a while. You’re biased.”

“Me and him weren’t friends in the beginning, though,” Zumaya says, glancing at Rick. “I thought he was full of himself and kinda an ass.”

“What changed?” Rick asks.

“Nothing much, he’s still full of himself and he’s still an ass.”

Rick gives him a look. “Why would you willingly be friends with somebody like that?”

Zumaya shrugs. “We just get each other now. If he didn’t think you were worth his time, he wouldn’t get on your ass at all anyways.”

“Kind of a fucked up way to show somebody you think they’re worth your time,” Rick says, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but that’s just the way he is,” Zumaya says.

“That doesn’t really make me like him any more, either.”

“ ’s why you guys need to talk, clear the air.” Zumaya punches Rick on the shoulder reassuringly.

“This seems kind of unnecessary, but whatever, man.” Rick gets up, puts his hands on his hips, and cracks his back satisfyingly. “He probably thinks I’m a weirdo or something for running out on him at the strip club that one time.”

“Oh yeah, he told me about that, said you got sick, couldn’t handle your booze.” Zumaya gets up too and laces his thick fingers together, cracks his knuckles loud enough to make Rick wince from sympathy pains.

Rick grabs his glove out of his locker, along with his hat and a pair of sunglasses he affixes to the brim of the cap. “Did everybody find out about that?”

Zumaya makes a noncommittal noise that doesn’t sound very reassuring. He angles his big body toward the doors. “Nah.”

Rick’s not sure he believes that. He knows Zumaya’s right, though, like he usually is. He has to touch base with Verlander and _clear the air_ , whatever that means—Rick’s brain automatically translates that into _make sure Verlander isn’t spreading gay rumors or anything_ —and he’s definitely not looking forward to it. 

-

The Yankees come into town at the beginning of the last week in April, for a three game series. Verlander faces off against Sabathia in the first game, and the match-up is everything it was hyped up to be. Sabathia goes a full eight and Verlander goes seven, and it’s a real pretty game right up until Rodney coughs up a couple runs before nailing it down. The next day, things start out okay, and it’s a scoreless tie in the seventh before the bullpen implodes for a ten run inning.

Perry gets saddled with the loss and an awful final line—four runs, two earned, in only a third of an inning, along with a couple walks—but the other relievers who come in to mop up after him don’t do so well either. Still, though, it’s his loss and he doesn’t take it too well, stomping and moping around the apartment like a two-year-old caught in the throes of a temper tantrum.

“You break it, you buy it,” Rick calls out from his kitchen table. He thumbs through some menus on his iPhone, while Perry serenades him with the slamming of cupboard doors and rattling drinking glasses.

“Save it, Rick,” Perry says. “Not in the mood.”

Rick looks up from his phone. “Dude, the game is _over_. You mind taking the stick out of your ass?”

Perry grabs a glass out of the cupboard and smacks it on the counter in defiance. “Your preoccupation with my ass is concerning.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re being a brat.” Rick sets his phone down and gets up. “Why don’t you just go to the gym or something, work off the excess energy.”

“You’re not helping.” Perry fills the glass with tap water and turns the plastic knobs violently. He takes a slug from the glass. “Tonight fucking sucked, you could at least _act_ like you cared.”

Rick looks at Perry; he’s standing over the sink, glass in hand, swirling water around in his mouth. It seems like half of him’s a million miles away, probably still on the mound at Comerica, getting battered like a punching bag by the Yankees’ lineup.

“Is this just about tonight’s game or—” Rick gets up and makes his way over to Perry, his movements tentative, barely movements at all. Perry doesn’t give any indication he’s heard him. “You seem really pissed off for it to just be about the game.”

Perry whirls around and pins Rick with an intense look, hands curling into fists against his blue jeaned thighs. “My whole season’s a mess, Rick. They’re gonna send me to Toledo.”

“You don’t know that,” Rick says. He feels like he’s tiptoeing around landmines or something, which is melodramatic, sure, but Perry’s being pretty damn melodramatic himself right now.

Perry tears at his hair a little before dropping his arms at his sides. “I suck.”

“Ryan, if this is—” Rick begins, but Perry cuts him off sharply.

“Whatever you’re gonna say right now, save it.” Perry shoves past Rick for the kitchen door and grabs his set of keys off the key holder. “I’m going out.”

“Is this really all about the game?” Rick echoes, reaching up and rubbing a hand through his hair.

Perry pauses by the door and fiddles with the key ring, swinging it around and around on his finger, staring at it like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “No, it’s not just about the fucking game or my shitty season, dumbass.”

Rick feels like his chest is constricting, like all the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer anymore. “What’s up, man?” He tries his best to sound non-threatening, _best friend with a shoulder to lend_.

Perry shoves the keys into his pocket and looks away. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

“I’m not really sure what’s even going on here,” Rick says, which is mostly the truth. When has he ever really been sure of anything, anyway? The fact Rick’s been leaning on Zumaya so heavily for advice should be proof to Perry that he has no idea what he’s doing.

“I hate you,” Perry says, but there’s no heat behind it, and his blue eyes are fond. All the anger over the game, his season, _whatever_ has completely fallen away. He looks like a mix of tired, stressed out, wary, and _affectionate_ , and Rick’s not sure what to make of it. 

Seeing Perry like this, all his walls stripped down, does something funny to Rick’s stomach, makes him feel kind of fluttery inside like he swallowed a lot of butterflies or something and they’re currently wreaking havoc on his digestive system.

“You don’t hate me,” Rick says.

“I guess not,” Perry answers, quietly. 

He moves away from the door, closer to where Rick is standing, and extends a hand, slowly. He touches Rick’s elbow and it’s weird, it’s not like they haven’t touched each other before. Rick’s even accidentally brushed his hand against Perry’s junk before—incidental contact!—but this is different. It’s like the touch is different because there’s intent behind it now.

Perry leaves his hand there, heavy and warm on Rick’s right elbow.

He glances down at Perry’s fingers curling in the light fabric of his shirtsleeve, and then raises his head. Perry’s still looking at him, eyes still bright and fond, but there’s something weightier behind them now, something Rick’s never seen there before.

“Jake was right about me,” Rick blurts out, before he really gives himself a chance to think the words over like he usually does. He’s usually so careful about what he says, how he says it. Perry’s the only one that gets to him like this.

Perry blinks at him, tilts his head in confusion. “Huh?”

“Never mind. I—I really suck at this stuff, Ryan, I’m sorry.” Rick grabs Perry’s hand in his, tugging it away from his sleeve, and keeps hold of it. He hopes Perry gets the hint, or he might have to do something drastic.

Perry looks down at their hands and works his mouth, sucks his lips between his teeth, while he turns words over in his head. Finally, he raises his head and meets Rick’s gaze again. “I was kinda wondering when you were gonna get the hint.”

“I was wondering the same thing about you,” Rick says, on a deep exhale. It feels like a huge weight’s just been lifted off his shoulders, a weight he hadn’t even known was there. Even his voice sounds different to his own ears.

Perry leans in and pauses, just the slightest hitch, flicking his eyes over Rick as if to reassure himself that this is really happening, that this is _real_ , before brushing his lips against Rick’s.

His mouth is warm and his breath smells like the vaguest hint of beer layered over breath mints, but it’s not unpleasant. Rick parts his lips and Perry pushes his tongue into his mouth, catches Rick by the back of the neck with his hand, and Rick wraps a hand in the back of Perry’s sweatshirt.

Perry pulls back and rests his forehead against Rick’s, his breath coming in short, hard bursts of air against Rick’s cheek. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that, Ricky.”

“Don’t call me Ricky.” Rick opens his fist and flattens the back of Perry’s sweatshirt back in place.

Perry presses his mouth against the soft curve of skin under Rick’s eye. “Sorry, no can do,” he mumbles.

“Think I’m starting to have buyer’s remorse,” Rick says, draping an arm loosely around Perry’s neck.

“You broke it, you bought it.” Rick can feel Perry grin against his cheek. 

Rick laughs. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Yep.” Perry sounds pleased with himself. “You did.”

“What about that girl?” Rick asks, picking at a stray thread on Perry’s shirt.

“What girl?” Perry looks at him in confusion.

“The one you were seeing, Veronica or Victoria or something—”

“Vanessa,” Perry corrects, with an easy shrug. “I was drunk and she was hot. We hooked up. That’s it.” He rubs a hand down Rick’s arm.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Perry says, nodding, bumping his chin into Rick’s shoulder. “Plus, she lives in Minnesota. It’s not like I’m ever gonna see her again.”

“Now what?” Rick asks, turning his head slightly to rub his cheek against Perry’s. He must’ve forgotten to shave that morning, because his rough, sandpapery stubble scrapes against Rick’s bare-shaven cheek.

“What do you mean?” Perry asks.

“What did we just do? Are we, like, _a thing_? Or—” Rick leans back to get a look at Perry’s eyes.

Perry twists his mouth. “Do you _wanna_ be a thing?”

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t really thought about it,” he says, reaching down to play with the pocket on the front of Perry’s sweatshirt.

“Me either. Why don’t we just—take it one step at a time?” Perry pauses. “Day to d—”

Rick snorts and slugs him lightly in the chest. “ _Dude_. Come on.”

“What?” Perry laughs. He catches Rick’s fist in his hand and turns his wrist so that he’s punching himself in the chin. “Why’re you hitting yourself, Ricky?”

Rick can’t help but laugh too, as he tries to dodge his own fist. “You fucker.”

“So, how about it?” Perry lets go of Rick’s wrist. “I say we wing it and see how it goes.”

 _Wing it_. Rick’s never been one to wing it, to just let go and go wherever fate or God or whatever pushes him. The thought of doing that is kind of scary, exhilarating, and exciting, all rolled into one very tall, tattooed package.

“It can’t hurt to try,” Rick says.

Perry grins at him and rubs his hands over Rick’s shoulders and down his arms, like he’s trying to warm them up. “It’s kinda weird to talk about it, you know? Like we’re drawing up plans or something.”

Rick laughs, resting a hand on Perry’s waist, near his hip. “Yeah. I’ve never really done this before.”

Perry raises his eyebrows comically high. “Wait, what? You’ve never done anything with a dude?”

“No, I’ve done stuff with _dudes_ ,” Rick scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I meant, like, hashed out ground rules beforehand.”

Perry smirks. “How many dudes’re we talking about here, Ricky?”

Rick shoves him gently in the chest, cheeks warming. “Jesus.”

Perry grins, delighted, eyes brightening. “You’re totally blushing.” 

“I’m not,” Rick insists.

“Are too.” Perry leans in, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, and kisses him again.

“What about you?” Rick mumbles against Perry’s lips. “How many dudes’ve _you_ been with?”

“Too many to count,” Perry says, kissing Rick again. “Don’t have enough fingers and toes to count ’em all off.”

“Liar.” Rick feels Perry smile against his mouth. “I bet you’re a virgin.”

“Shut up, you _know_ I’m not a virgin,” Perry huffs. He slides his hands under Rick’s shirt and flattens his palms on his back. “You feel good.”

Rick laughs. “Weirdo.”

“Now I’m just thinking about all the time we wasted being toolbags that could’ve been better spent fucking.” Perry sighs.

“Let’s make up for lost time then,” Rick says. “Chop chop.”

Perry slips his hands down Rick’s back and gives his ass a squeeze. “You dork.” 

Rick pushes him in the chest, helpfully nudging Perry toward his bedroom. “You like it.”

Perry grins at him. “I do.”

-

Rick’s got his head on Perry’s shoulder and he can feel Perry’s cheek pressing into the top of his head. The Technicolor ink on Perry’s arm is stark against the white bedsheets and Rick’s pale skin.

“So,” Rick says.

“So?” Perry turns beside him, bedsheets rustling, and props himself up on his elbow.

“Now what?” Rick tugs a pillow under his head.

“You wanna fuck? Or just mess around?” Perry starts running his fingers up Rick’s side.

“I dunno,” Rick says, turning his head, squashing his mouth against Perry’s shoulder. “Surprise me.”

“Surprise you with buttsex?” Perry smirks at his joke and Rick punches him in the chest. “Ow, hey, come on. You have to admit, it was a good one.”

“Not really.” 

Perry rolls on top of Rick and straddles his hips, pulling the bed sheet over their heads. “Let’s build a fort.”

“A fort? What, are you twelve?” Rick asks, unable to keep from smiling.

“If I’m twelve, that’d make you a kiddy diddler,” Perry says, holding the sheet up over them like a tent.

Rick laughs. “Wow, dude. Really?”

“We should build a fort and just live there,” Perry says, bending down and pressing a kiss at Rick’s hairline. “Never come out. Just hang out in a tent and be all badass and shit.”

“Where’s this hypothetical fort gonna be?” Rick asks.

“I dunno, the woods maybe? You hunt and fish, right? You could provide us with sustenance and I could do all the handiwork. We could build our badass fort and make bonfires and stuff.” Perry smiles against Rick’s forehead and lets go of the sheet. It settles over them gently, cool against Rick’s warm skin.

“I don’t think I like this idea,” Rick says, wrapping his arms around Perry, holding on tight. “What about baseball?”

“I’ll build you a ham radio out of spare parts and we can listen to WXYT next to our badass bonfire.” Perry wriggles against Rick, cracking a grin. “You’ll never be without the dulcet tones of Dan Dickerson and Jim Price.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Rick says, shaking his head. He runs a hand up Perry’s back, between his shoulder blades. “No baseball, no deal.”

“I’d think of _something_ to keep you occupied,” Perry says, kissing him, worrying at his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t miss it, not even a little bit.”

-

“You sound a lot happier.” Jake pauses dramatically. “You must be getting laid.”

“Jake,” Rick squawks, as he paces around the kitchen, barefoot, clad in a pair of Perry’s low-slung gray sweatpants and an old Seton Hall Prep tee. He scratches at his chest and pauses in front of the open pantry to inspect the available brands of cereal. “Cut it out.”

“You are, aren’t you.” Jake snickers. “Tell me about her.” He pauses. “Or him.”

Rick sighs, but doesn’t bother to correct Jake on the pronouns this time. He grabs a box of Special K and knocks the pantry door shut. “None of your business.”

“Come on, man. You were practically sobbing at me on the phone the last time—”

“I wasn’t _sobbing_ at you.” Rick interrupts Jake before he can go off on a tangent about how Rick sobs like a girl or something completely ridiculous and untrue. “I was just venting.”

“Right, whatever. Same thing,” Jake says. “At least things are going better for you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rick says. He tucks his cell phone between his ear and shoulder and turns, snagging a bowl out of Perry’s hands. “Things are actually pretty good right now.”

“How’s Perry?” Jake’s tone is sugary sweet, and Rick doesn’t trust it one bit.

“Ryan’s fine,” Rick says. Perry makes a grab for the phone at the mention of his name, but Rick knocks his hand away. “Jesus, Ryan, cut it out.”

“Everything all right over there? What’s your loverboy up to?” Jake teases.

“Fuck you, Jake, he’s _not_ my loverboy,” Rick says with a scowl. Perry presses his face against Rick’s shoulder and gnaws lightly.

“Well, you _do_ make love and he _is_ a boy, right?”

Rick knows he’s just trying to get a rise out of him, and, fuck him, it’s working. “Dude, don’t even go there,” he warns.

“What? Just asking!” Jake starts cackling.

Rick rubs a hand over his forehead and shakes Perry off his shoulder. “Sure you were.”

“Honest, man. I’m happy for you,” Jake continues. “Did Perry replace the stick up your ass with his—”

“I’m hanging up on you now,” Rick says, calmly. Perry raises his eyebrows at him in question, forehead scrunching, but Rick just waves him off with a little _you don’t even wanna know_ hand motion.

“All right, fine, be that way,” Jake huffs, pretending to sound annoyed. Rick can hear the smile on his voice. “ ’Bye, Ricky.”

“ ’Bye, Jake.” Rick flips his cell phone shut and drops it on the kitchen counter. “My brother is showing a disturbing amount of interest in our sex life.”

Perry grins, plucking the bowl out of Rick’s hands. “He’s a punk.”

“Well, you’re the youngest in your family. You’d know from being a punk, wouldn’t you?” Rick says, stealing the bowl back.

“Guess you have a thing for punks then,” Perry says, flexing the muscles of his right arm so that his ridiculous playing card tattoo ripples.

Rick frowns. “I don’t have a thing for my brother.”

Perry’s eyes bug out, almost comically. “That’s not what I meant!” 

“Nice save,” Rick says, rolling his eyes. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and carries it over to the kitchen table.

Perry grabs an orange out of a basket of fruit on the kitchen island, lobs it in the air like a baseball and catches it. He collapses in the seat across from Rick and props his bare feet up on the table. Rick makes a slight face and pokes at the sole of Perry’s foot with the handle of his spoon.

“Get your dirty feet off my kitchen table, heathen.”

Perry starts peeling at the orange. “A dead man owned this table, Rick. I really think my feet are the lesser of two evils here.”

“It’s not like he died on the table, for God’s sake,” Rick says, patting the tabletop. “This is a good, sturdy table.”

“And _you’d_ know from good and sturdy,” Perry retorts, sectioning the orange and shoving a wedge into his mouth. He pulls his lips against his teeth and gums at it, making disgusting squishing noises.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Rick shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and flips through that morning’s paper idly.

Perry shrugs. “It sounded good in my brain,” he says, smirking. “The execution just sucked.”

Rick ducks his head and smiles, licks his thumb and flips past another page. “Well, you’re pretty good at that sucking thing.”

“Hey! What’re you—” Perry stops himself short, as realization dawns slowly, and he grins. “Oh, well, _that_. Of course I am. I’m the best.”

“How’d you get to be so good? Is that what you were doing in Lakeland after hours?” Rick asks.

He takes great pleasure in watching the flush rise slowly from Perry’s jawline and creep up to the rounds of his cheeks.

“You, sir, are an asshole,” Perry says, finishing off his orange and dropping the peel on the tabletop carelessly. “But it’s okay, ’cause I like you.”

“Good, ’cause I like you too,” Rick says. He starts dicking around with his spoon and the leftover milk in his cereal bowl, tries to see if he can nail Perry from across the table.

“Are you flicking milk at me?” Perry reaches up and rubs at his cheek.

Rick beams. “Yup. What’re you gonna do about it?”

Perry makes a thoughtful face. “Kick your lily-white ass?”

“ _That’s_ what you want to do with my ass?” Rick raises an eyebrow at Perry and grins when his cheeks begin to redden.

“Well, that and other things,” Perry says, smirking.

“What sort of other things?” Rick asks, voice sounding husky and unfamiliar in his own ears. 

“Like, I dunno,” Perry says, reaching out, closing a hand around Rick’s wrist. He rubs his thumb over the curve of Rick’s wrist bone in slow, gentle circles. “I think we could figure something out eventually. But only through lots of practice, you know?”

Rick laughs quietly and lets Perry keep hold of his wrist. “Right. Practice makes perfect.”

“So, what’re we waiting for then?” Perry hikes an eyebrow at Rick in question.

“I have to put my bowl in the—”

“Dude, we’re _guys_ ,” Perry interrupts, laughing. “Forget the dishes and have sex with me.”

Rick twists his wrist away from Perry’s hand and rolls his eyes. “Classy.”

Perry gets up, grabs Rick by the arm, and pulls him out his chair, flush against his chest. “Seriously, dishes can wait.” He hooks an arm around Rick’s waist and pulls him in for a kiss.

Rick tries to protest, half-heartedly, but Perry’s a pretty good kisser, and all thoughts of doing the dishes fly out of his mind. Perry backs Rick up, hands at his hips, until Rick’s shoulder blades meet the wall with a firm thump. Rick tries to push back against him, but Perry pins him against the wall and pulls his mouth away from Rick’s.

“Ryan, wh—”

“Shut up.” Perry lays a trail of gentle kisses down the side of Rick’s neck, and one of his hands slips under Rick’s shirt. His fingertips are rough, warm, welcome.

Rick tips his head back and closes his eyes as Perry pauses to press a lingering kiss against Rick’s shoulder through the thin, worn cotton of his old Seton Hall Prep tee.

Rick wonders idly what Leyland might think of this, his stud pitching prospect making out with another guy—his teammate, no less—in his kitchen, but quickly banishes that thought from his mind. He doesn’t want to think about Leyland while Perry’s hand is tugging open his jeans.

“Shouldn’t we be doing this in the bedroom?” Rick asks.

“Haven’t you always wanted to have kitchen sex?” Perry slips his hand into Rick’s boxers.

“I guess I never thought about it before.” Perry’s hand wraps tightly around Rick’s cock and his teeth find a spot of skin on Rick’s neck to worry at, and Rick closes his eyes again.

Perry drops to his knees in front of Rick and yanks his jeans down the rest of the way. He runs a hand up Rick’s thigh. “You’re seriously the whitest dude I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s a lie. You’ve shared a locker room with Bonderman,” Rick huffs.

Perry doesn’t bother to reply. Instead, he pulls Rick’s cock out of his boxers and leans forward, flicking his tongue out to tease around the head. Rick stops short of digging his fingernails into Perry’s shoulder. Perry sucks the head of Rick’s cock into his mouth with a noisy, almost showy pop, and Rick lets his eyes drift shut.

Perry’s really good at this, teasing and pushing Rick just far enough to come apart before pulling him back off the ledge. It’s equal parts frustrating and awesome—which sums up Perry hilariously well.

Rick feels Perry’s hand wrap around his balls and knead them and it’s kind of weird—no one’s ever done that to him before—but he thinks he likes it. Perry’s mouth is on his cock, his hand is on his balls, and Rick can feel this intense wave of pleasure slowly building and building deep inside him.

Then Perry pushes a finger into his ass unexpectedly and Rick’s orgasm is practically torn out of him. His mind goes immaculately blank for a moment there, all ability to think or act stripped from him. There’s just this incredible feeling rushing through him. He’s also pretty sure he can hear Perry laughing at him.

Rick opens his eyes and props himself back against the wall. He swipes at his chest and stomach and frowns. “What’s so funny?”

Perry sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Your face.” He rolls his eyes back and jerks spasmodically. “I thought you were having a seizure.”

“Fuck you,” Rick says, mildly.

Perry wags his index finger. “Uh uh. Only if you ask nicely.” He pushes himself to his feet and looks down at the front of his sweatpants. “Think you owe me.”

“C’mere.” Rick reaches out and grabs hold of Perry by the waist of his sweatpants, tugging him close. Perry grinds his erection against Rick’s thigh and lets out a guttural groan. “No, stop. You’re not going to hump my leg like a dog.” He pushes his hand into Perry’s sweats and starts to stroke his cock.

Perry mumbles weak protests into Rick’s shoulder, and pushes his hips into Rick’s hand.

It doesn’t take him long until he’s coming, hips jerking, mouth pressed against the side of Rick’s neck. Perry shudders once, twice against Rick, hips still working. Rick runs his free hand up between Perry’s shoulder blades, into his hair.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Perry mutters, “ ’m good. You?”

Rick closes his eyes, keeps a hand in Perry’s hair. He sighs deeply, breathes in the scent of Perry’s shampoo. “Yeah. I’m good.”

-

Rick gets top rookie honors at the end of May, and he and Perry decide to celebrate the accomplishment at their apartment with copious amounts of alcohol, a baseball movie marathon and lots of sex. Verlander tries to talk them both into joining him, Zumaya, and their girls for a night on the town at this club Zumaya maintains is the best night club in the Great Lakes area, but Rick doesn’t really trust Zumaya’s taste in, well, _anything_. He might be pretty good at dispensing advice, but Rick’s seen Zumaya’s taste in clubs before.

“Believe me, Zoom knows clubs,” Verlander says, leaning against Rick’s locker.

Rick finishes lacing up his cleats and stands, turning to grab his glove, slides it onto his hand. “I don’t doubt that for a second,” he agrees, knowing it’ll only frustrate Verlander more.

“Come on,” Verlander whines. “What’ve you got lined up tonight that’s better than goin’ to Pulse with the rest of us?”

Rick shrugs, avoids glancing over in Perry’s direction, and looks down at his glove. He plucks at a lace. “Got things to do.”

“Is it a girl?” Verlander asks, grinning and crossing his arms over his chest. He taps the toe of his crosstrainer on the thin, nubbly gray carpet.

“If it was I wouldn’t tell _you_ ,” Rick retorts.

“Aw, why not? We’re teammates, rook! Family!” Verlander reaches out and ruffles Rick’s hair.

“I don’t talk to my family about the kind of stuff we talk about in the locker room,” Rick says, ducking Verlander’s hand.

“You’re such a major buzzkill.” Verlander stamps his feet like a petulant child.

“Got to give Zoom props for not hauling off and punching you yet,” Rick says, backing away and smoothing his hands through his mussed up hair.

“He doesn’t have it in him,” Verlander says, standing straight and tucking the tails of his jersey into his belt. “He’s a big ol’ teddy bear.”

“Who you callin’ a teddy bear?” Zumaya inserts his big body between the two of them, slinging his arms over their shoulders.

“Who d’you think?” Verlander smirks and starts poking Zumaya in the belly relentlessly.

“Hey, cut it out.” Zumaya whacks Verlander’s hand away and turns his attention to Rick. “So, you comin’ with us, kid? Or we gonna have to drag you kickin’ and screamin’?”

Rick glances briefly at Verlander, who’s staring at him intently, and then at Zumaya. “Uh,” he says.

“Uh’s not an answer,” Zumaya chirps.

“Okay, Judge Judy.” Rick looks past Zumaya to Perry at the other side of the clubhouse and feels slightly, inexplicably guilty. “I guess I’ll go? Perry’ll be excited. Hasn’t been out of the apartment in a while since Victoria—or was it Vanessa—dumped him.”

“He ain’t comin’,” Zumaya says, waving a hand dismissively in Perry’s general direction. “Already asked him, said he has plans or somethin’.”

“Really? Better tell him I won’t be around ’til later, then,” Rick says, trying to push past Verlander and Zumaya. Zumaya stops him with a big hand in the center of his chest and Rick raises an eyebrow in question at him.

“You guys really _are_ like an ol’ married couple,” Zumaya chuckles, dropping his hand. “You don’t have to tell him everythin’, do you?”

“Communication is key in any relationship,” Rick deadpans, slipping between the two of them and making his way over to Perry’s locker. “Hey.”

Perry pulls off his headphones and stands, grabbing onto Rick’s hand and pulling him into his chest in one of those manly one-armed hugs. He lingers just split second longer than usual before letting go and stepping back. “Hey, ’s up?”

“You got plans tonight?” Rick asks.

“Yeah. You?” Perry asks.

“Yeah. I got roped into going out with Zoom and Ver tonight. So.” Rick looks over his shoulder; Verlander and Zumaya are bickering about something, of course. Zumaya pushes Verlander in the chest playfully and Verlander pushes back, and then they’re wrestling and rolling around in front of Porcello’s locker in the blink of an eye.

Perry huffs. “Thought we were gonna go and celebrate. Just you and me,” he says, sotto voce.

“They won’t let me back out of it. Sorry,” Rick apologizes, raising his hands defensively.

“Some friend you are,” Perry grumbles.

Rick looks at him, unsure if Perry’s really upset or just yanking his chain. “If you want me to hang out with you, I can just—”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Perry says quickly, thumping Rick on the shoulder and offering him a reassuring smile. “Really. Don’t look at me like that, Ricky.”

“Look, Ryan, if you wanted to do something—”

“ _Dude_ ,” Perry cuts him off, punching him in the shoulder again, a little harder than usual. “Quit being such a girl. We’re cool.” 

“Yeah, so. See you later, then.” Rick gives Perry’s shoulder a squeeze and heads back to his locker, where Verlander and Zumaya are waiting. “Who won this time?”

“Zoom did.” Verlander pants, bent at the waist with his hands on his thighs, while Zumaya leans against Rick’s locker nonchalantly, picking at his nails.

“Never met a skinny fucker more out of shape than you are,” Zumaya says, grinning smugly down at Verlander.

“I’m not out of shape,” he complains, straightening up and rubbing a hand through his spiky brown hair, pushing it back into place. Rick keeps meaning to ask Verlander how he gets his hair to stand up like that. “You just play dirty.”

“Them’s the breaks,” Zumaya says, grinning. He reaches over and pats Verlander on the top of his head. “Better luck next time, Gumby.”

“ _Gumby_?” Verlander balks, ducking his head and reaching up to fix his hair again.

“You guys got pet names for each other now? What’ll your girls think?” Rick asks, laughing.

“Hey!” Zumaya narrows his eyes. “What’re you implyin’?”

Verlander pats Zumaya on the shoulder. “He’s not _implyin’_ anything. He’s inferring.”

Zumaya gives Verlander a questioning look, eyebrows raised. “So? What’s the difference?”

“Never mind, I’ll explain it later.” Verlander clips Zumaya on the shoulder. “So, everything cool with Perry?”

“Yeah,” Rick says, stealing another glance Perry’s way. Perry catches him looking and nods to him, offering him a small smile before ducking out. “We gonna get this show on the road or what?”

“Me and Zoom’ll swing by your place around eight.” Verlander nudges Zumaya in the side with his elbow. Zumaya just shrugs and nods. “Eight sounds about right, you think? Takes about half an hour to get there. And,” Verlander says, flashing Rick a smirk, “you can bring a date if you want.”

Rick thinks briefly about Perry and shakes his head. “Nah. I’m cool.”

-

The place Zumaya picked is surprisingly low-key and actually kind of classy, not at all like Rick was expecting. There’s a bar, a dance floor, a smoking room, and a section of the place has even been set aside for patrons to dine and drink. Their group gets a secluded booth in back where no one will bother them, and Verlander orders them a round of stiff drinks to start them off.

Verlander brings a girl with him and Rick can’t miss the big diamond ring on her finger or the possessive way she wraps both her small hands around Verlander’s large one. 

Verlander’s a little more reserved than Rick’s seen him, keeping his eyes mostly on the girl at his side. Occasionally an attractive woman passes by their booth and Verlander will let his gaze wander, but he doesn’t linger. Rick can hardly believe it.

“So,” Rick says to her, “what’s your name? Don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Emily,” she says, letting go of Verlander’s hand to squeeze a lime wedge into her Corona. She eyes the empty space by Rick’s side. “You didn’t bring anybody?”

“Nah,” Rick says, smiling down at his glass. “Don’t have a girlfriend.”

“You’re too cute. If I weren’t engaged to this guy—” Emily gives Verlander a pat on the chest “—I’d snap you up so fast.”

“What’s that?” Verlander leans in and nuzzles behind Emily’s ear. “You plannin’ on runnin’ around on me with Ricky?”

Emily laughs and takes a sip of beer. “You jealous, baby?”

Rick chuckles and sits back, sipping at his drink. Zumaya slings an arm around his shoulders and gives him a shake.

“What?” Rick asks.

“Nothin’,” Zumaya says. “Us single guys oughta stick together, all I’m sayin’.”

“Dude, you’re married,” Rick says.

“You see my wife here?” Zumaya gestures to the empty spot at his side.

“Okay. You kind of have a point.”

Zumaya lets go of Rick’s neck and grabs his beer. “ ’s what I thought,” he says, taking a long pull. He lowers the bottle and nods at Rick. “What’d Perry have goin’ on that he couldn’t come out with the rest of us?”

“I dunno,” Rick says, shrugging. “I think he met a girl.”

Zumaya drums his fingers on the table top and shakes his head, makes a disapproving clicking noise with his tongue and his two front teeth. “He coulda brought her along.”

“I guess.” Rick finishes off the last of his drink and puts the glass down. His mind wanders back to Perry, what he’s up to right then before he forces the thoughts out of his head. “I think him and his new girl had plans.”

Zumaya huffs. “Bros before hos, man.”

Rick laughs. “I told him the same thing.”

“He’ll learn,” Zumaya says, nodding sagely.

“You’re quite the romantic, Joel,” Emily teases, sipping at her beer.

“Hey now, you know what I mean.” Zumaya gestures at her with his beer bottle. “I love my wife. But sometimes I need my boys too, you know?”

Verlander chuckles and holds out his fist to Zumaya, who responds with a fist bump. “Preachin’ to the choir, my man.”

Emily whacks him lightly on the arm, and beer sloshes over the sides of his glass. “You better watch it.”

Verlander grins over at her. “Love you too, Emily.”

Emily rolls her eyes, but Rick can see the beginnings of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I dunno why anyone puts up with him,” Zumaya says, snorting into his glass.

“It’s ’cause I’m charming, you asshole.” Verlander puts his glass down and gestures grandiosely to Rick. “Anyways, enough about me. Thought we were out to celebrate the coronation of Ricky here as Rookie of the Month.”

“That was more dramatic than necessary,” Rick says, quirking his mouth into a brief half-smile.

“That’s how I do.” Verlander winks at him.

“That’s how I do? I can’t believe you just said that,” Rick says.

“Oh, stuff it, rook.” Verlander waves a hand at Rick dismissively. “Here, I’m trying to be nice to you, mend bridges, and you’ve gotta—”

“Fences,” Rick says, taking a sip of his beer.

“What?” Verlander raises his eyebrows.

“Fences. You burn bridges and you mend fences.”

Verlander rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Same thing. You know what I mean.” 

“Right,” Rick says, laughing. “Okay.”

“So we’re cool?”

“Cool about what?” Rick asks.

“That whole thing with the strippers and you getting sick and stuff,” Verlander says, raising his glass to his lips.

Rick hazards a quick glance at Emily, but she doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Uh, I guess so?”

“He does this a lot,” Emily cuts in, shifting a look at Verlander out of the corner of her eyes. 

Rick takes a slug of beer and swirls it around in his mouth. “Does what?”

“Continues conversations from, like, three weeks ago that everybody else but him has probably already forgotten about,” she says, patting Verlander on the chest.

“Hey, I do not.” Verlander brushes her hand away and pouts dramatically, his bushy, caterpillar-like brows furrowed.

“Hon, you do.” Emily sips her drink. “But it’s okay. I like you.”

Rick checks out of their semi-argument—that seems to be more for show than anything else, at least on Verlander’s part—and works on his beer. Occasionally, he checks his phone to see if Perry’s sent him any text messages. 

It isn’t until Zumaya’s pounding him on the back with his big paw that Rick realizes he’s being talked to.

“What?” Rick pushes his drink aside.

“I _said_ ,” Zumaya brays, listing heavily into Rick’s side, “who’d you rather face bases loaded, nobody out. Miggy or Pujols?” Zumaya gives him what he probably thinks is an encouraging shove in the shoulder.

“Dude, you’re so drunk,” Rick says, wincing, reaching up and rubbing at his shoulder. “How did this even happen? Did you, like, inject the booze directly into your bloodstream?”

“You’re a disappointment to your people, Zoomy. Go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done,” Verlander chides lightly, slapping Zumaya on the back, between his shoulder blades.

Zumaya narrows his eyes at him. “Okay, four-beers-and-out-like-a-light.”

Verlander pats Zumaya on the back again and gives Rick a slight nod, like _would you_ look _at this guy?_ “Okay, whatever you say, man.”

“So, Rick.” Emily turns to him and puts a hand on his arm, her dark eyes all big and faux innocent. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Um, like what?” Rick laughs awkwardly and rubs at the back of his neck, caught off guard. “I’m not really that interesting.” 

“Justin told me you’d say that,” she sighs.

“Well, he’s right,” Rick says, offering her a tiny smile. “I’m pretty boring.”

“I told you, Em. Didn’t I tell you?” Verlander leans back in his seat and reaches back, rubbing a hand through his stiff, spiky brown hair.

Emily turns back to Rick and eyes him, almost appraisingly. “I think you’re just playing coy now,” she says, mouth curling slowly into a smile.

“I’m really not playing. I’m, like, the most ordinary guy on the team,” Rick says, looking down at the tablecloth and picking at a loose thread. He looks at Emily again. “I speak fluent Spanish, though, so . . .” He shrugs.

“Ah ha! I knew it. You were holding out on me.” Emily winks at him. “ _Ay, papí. Creo que eres sexy. Estás buenísimo._ ”

Rick can feel the color rise to his cheeks and he ducks his head. “Um, _gracías_.”

Verlander frowns. “What’d you just say? What’d she just say to you, rook?”

“She said she, uh, thinks I’m sexy. And that I’m the best. With connotations.” Rick bypasses his glass of beer for his water and sips at it, avoiding meeting Verlander’s eyes.

“Hey, what’m I, chopped liver?” Verlander pouts and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Oh, stop it. You know I love you.” Emily swats Verlander lightly on the shoulder.

Rick sits back and watches the two of them go at it some more, playfully combatant. He wonders what Perry’s up to and digs out his cell phone, flipping it open. Rick fires off a quick text— _what r u up 2, im so bored, save me_ —and puts his phone down on the table.

A couple minutes later, the phone starts vibrating and he picks it up.

 _“What r u up 2”? I should let you suffer for that._

Rick snorts out a quiet laugh, folds his phone, and tucks it back in his pocket.

-

Rick’s in his room, listening to some music on his headphones and fucking around on Facebook when there’s a sharp rapping on his bedroom door. He pushes the headphones off and looks up; Perry offers him a slight smile.

“What’s up?” Rick asks, kicking his legs out, letting them dangle off the side of the bed. “You wanna go out, catch something to eat?”

“Can’t,” Perry says, tiny lukewarm smile fading altogether. “I’ve gotta pack.”

“Pack? For what?” Rick shuts his computer and gets up to approach Perry, but he waves Rick off.

“They’re optioning me to Toledo,” Perry says, jamming his fists into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Bondo’s coming off the D.L. and they need to free up a spot.”

“Jeez, Ryan, I’m sorry,” Rick says, mind whirling. “When did they—”

“Just now,” Perry says, producing his cell phone. He stares at its shiny black shell, almost resentfully, before shoving it back in his hoodie pocket. “Dave said I’d be back up in no time.” He laughs bitterly.

“You don’t believe them?” Rick asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I’ve been shit lately, Ricky,” Perry says.

“You just said yourself, they’ll bring you back—”

“This fucking sucks,” Perry cuts him off, stamping his bare feet on Rick’s carpet like a child.

Rick reaches out tentatively and puts a hand on Perry’s shoulder. “I could help you pack.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Perry says, looking askance at Rick’s hand on his shoulder. “Honestly. I’m not a kid. I don’t need you to pick up after me.”

Rick gives Perry a slight shake. “Look, I know you’re kind of pissed off and all, but you don’t need to be a d-bag about it.”

Perry sighs, shoulders flagging. “Sorry. Sure, you can help me pack if you want,” he says, reaching up and grabbing Rick’s hand for a second before letting it go.

Rick follows Perry to the guest room—that Perry doesn’t really stay in anymore, anyway—and settles on the end of Perry’s unkempt bed. Perry pulls a nylon duffel bag out of his closet and tosses it alongside Rick. He goes over to his closet, throws open the doors, and starts digging clothes out of a pile on the floor.

“Dude.” Rick catches a t-shirt to the face and he bats it down. “How the fuck do you know if anything’s clean?”

Perry raises a pair of plaid boxers to his nose and sniffs. “The smell test, duh.”

Rick bypasses the smell test—or whatever the fuck, because _seriously_ —and folds the t-shirt, packing it in the duffel. “That’s disgusting.”

“It works for me.” Perry grabs an armful of band tees—Rick makes out _Skillet_ , _Flyleaf_ , and _Metallica_ and he rolls his eyes—and brings them over, dumping them in the bag.

“I guess you don’t really need my help then,” Rick says, resisting the urge to dive back into Perry’s duffel bag and fold all his wrinkled band tees.

“You’re fine.” Perry comes back to the bed and nudges the bag aside, settling next to Rick. He drops a pair of his boxers on Rick’s head and starts giggling.

“I hope these are clean.” Rick pulls them down and whacks Perry in the chest with them.

“I’ll leave them with you to remember me by.” He leans in and nuzzles against the side of Rick’s neck. 

Rick turns his head, giving Perry easier access. “Ha ha.”

Perry noses at his collarbone and slides a hand under the back of Rick’s t-shirt. He rubs up Rick’s back, slowly. “I dunno, you might forget me.”

“That’s pretty much an impossibility,” Rick says, closing his eyes, leaning back into the touch.

“Yeah?” Perry kisses him on the shoulder.

“Yeah.” Rick squeezes him on the knee.

“Good.” Perry slips away from Rick’s side and gets up, duffel bag in hand. “I’ve gotta finish packing.” He winks.

“I _hate_ you,” Rick says.

Perry’s smirk blossoms into a grin that Rick alternately wants to slap and kiss off his face. “No, you don’t.”

-

Bonderman gets rocked in Chicago and a few hours later, Rick’s cell phone is thrumming against his thigh while he’s waiting in line with Verlander and Jackson to get into a club. Rick plucks his phone out of his pants pocket and flips it open.

“Hello?”

Perry greets him cheerily, which is a big, welcome change from the previous night. “Hey, it’s me.”

“What’s up? How’s Toledo?” Rick winces at the stupidity and obviousness of the question.

“I just got a call from Dave. I’m coming back in a couple days,” Perry yells.

“What? Did they tell you why?” Rick asks.

“Dave didn’t say much, just told me not to bother unpacking and come right back,” Perry says. “So, yeah.”

“That’s great, man. It wasn’t the same without you,” Rick says.

Perry snorts. “I was only gone, what, one day?”

“It was a very long day,” Rick says.

Perry says, “You’re such a girl,” but he sounds fond. 

Rick can feel a smile growing on his face and he doesn’t really know what he’d say if Verlander or Jackson noticed. Thankfully, they’re too busy checking out women in the line to get into the club to notice Rick.

“Well, yeah. It’ll be great to get you back. I’m guessing someone’s going on the D.L. then?” Rick says.

“How come?”

“Can’t bring a guy back from an assignment within ten days,” Rick says. “Unless somebody has to go on the D.L.”

“How do you know all this crap? Did you memorize the rulebook?” Perry cackles.

“Yes, I memorized the rulebook,” Rick says, dryly. Someone nudges him sharply in the side and Rick looks up; Verlander’s nodding to him, eyebrows raised. “Look, I gotta go, line’s moving.”

“Where are you?”

“Me, Ver, and E-Jax went to this nightclub on the South Side,” Rick says, letting Verlander drag him by the sleeve of his shirt. “It’s, like, within walking distance of the Cell.”

“Sounds classy,” Perry says, with a laugh. “Anyways, I’ll let you go then. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, Ryan, see you tomorrow.” Rick presses **END** and tucks his cell phone back in his pocket. He tugs his sleeve out of Verlander’s grip. “What?”

“Holdin’ up the line, Ricky. What was that all about,” he asks, dropping his hand. “Perry?”

“Yeah, he’s coming back. Somebody’s getting shipped out,” Rick says.

Verlander thins his lips until they disappear. “Probably Bondo. He didn’t seem right,” he says. Bonderman had gotten absolutely rocked against the White Sox that night, six runs allowed in only four innings. “Anyways, c’mon. Edwin got us into the VIP section.”

“How’d he manage that?” Rick asks, as he follows Verlander into the club.

“He’s got a buddy works here or something.” Verlander points to Jackson, who’s waiting for them near the back wall. “Don’t worry. No strippers here.”

Rick laughs, in spite of himself. “Thank God for small miracles.”

“Yeah.” Verlander clips him on the shoulder lightly with his fist, and just like that, the last few months of awkwardness and occasional hostilities are brushed aside. Rick had kind of been hoping for a shouting match, but whatever. Maybe he watches too much shitty daytime talk shows or something.

The two of them make their way toward Jackson, when Rick gets pressed into a tiny girl in a shimmery silver tube top masquerading as a dress. The girl smiles at him and flutters her eyelashes, and Rick finds himself smiling back. Her hand snakes up Rick’s arm to his neck, and her fingers are cool and dry on his skin. She smells fruity, like watermelon or something, and he has a sudden urge to kiss her just to see if she tastes like it too.

“Hi,” he says, still smiling at her.

She pushes curly blonde hair behind a bare shoulder, leans in. “My name’s Elissa,” she yells over the pulsing beat of the music. “Wanna dance?”

“Uh—” _I’m with somebody_ is on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason, he swallows the words back. It’s not like Verlander and Jackson are going to miss him. In fact, they’d probably encourage him to ditch them and hook up with this girl. Hell, _Perry_ would probably encourage him to hook up with her too. “Okay. Sure.”

Elissa’s smile widens and she slides her hand down his arm to his wrist, tugs him after her onto the dance floor.

Rick spots Verlander with Jackson, and they both give him enthusiastic thumbs up.

Elissa smiles up at him and dances into his airspace. The watermelon smell is overpowering now, clawing its way into his sinuses. “What’s your name?”

“Rick,” he says, swinging his arms kind of stiffly and bobbing on the heels of his feet.

“You kind of suck at this dancing thing,” she teases, touching his arm again.

“I don’t get out much,” he deadpans.

Elissa blinks big blue—he thinks, the lighting kind of sucks—eyes at him. “Really?”

“I’m a shut-in.” Rick offers her a faux apologetic smile.

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry.” Elissa leans in and slips an arm around his neck. “That must be really hard.”

“Yeah, it’s a rough existence.” Rick knows he should feel bad, feel like a douchebag for lying to her just because, but he doesn’t. If Perry were here—but Perry’s not here. “I’m just messing with you.”

“What?” she asks.

He leans in, near her ear. “I’m just messing around with you, sorry. I’m not really a shut-in. Actually, I get out a lot. Maybe more than I should.” Out of the corner of his eye, Rick can see Verlander give him another thumbs up. He barely restrains himself from flipping him off over Elissa’s bare, tanned shoulder.

“That’s rude! Thank God you’re cute.” Elissa giggles and flutters her eyelashes at him.

The song finishes and transitions rather poorly into a slower paced one, and Rick disengages himself from her. He can tell she wants the slow dance too, but he turns her down gently, with a smile, and goes to find Verlander and Jackson.

“The fuck you doin’, kid? That girl was all _over_ you,” Jackson says in lieu of a greeting, when Rick finds them.

“She was cute,” Rick allows, sliding into the booth they’ve picked out, next to Verlander. “Not interested though.”

“You got a girl back home or somethin’?” Jackson asks, picking up a glass and chasing ice cubes around with a red straw.

“Yeah,” Rick says, taking the easy out. “Off again, on again high school thing.”

“You in the Show now,” Jackson says, laughing. “Do better.”

Rick rolls his eyes. “I like what I’ve got,” he says, thinking of Perry again. “I don’t want to mess that up.”

Jackson nods and purses his lips thoughtfully. “Hey, I get you, man.” He holds out a fist, shakes it at Rick a little, and Rick obliges, bumping fists in response.

Verlander and Jackson try to engage him all night, try to point out girls to Rick that they think he might have a chance of scoring with, but he shoots them down politely, reminds them of that high school girlfriend back home in Jersey. 

Actually, Rick’s kind of terrible company. All he can think about is Perry’s impending return. He spends most of his time staring at his phone, firing off texts that Perry isn’t responding to, and checking the weather in Toledo.

Rick knows he should feel bad about Bonderman probably having to go back on the disabled list but, honestly? He really doesn’t.

Perry’s coming back. That’s what matters.

-

Rick’s lying in bed, thumbing through text messages, when the door to his bedroom slowly creaks open and he looks up. Perry’s standing in the doorway, nylon duffel bag dangling from one hand.

“Hey.” Rick puts his phone down, gets out of bed and heads over to him.

Perry smiles and drops his duffel on the floor between them. “Hey.” He steps over the bag and hooks an arm around Rick’s waist, pulling him in close.

Rick kisses him lightly. “Missed you.”

Perry laughs and kisses him back, sliding his hands under the back of Rick’s shirt. He digs his fingernails lightly in his skin. “You’re such a girl. I wasn’t even gone for that long.”

“Oh, shut up.” Rick leans back into Perry’s touch and rolls his shoulders. Perry’s hands are warm and firm on his back.

“Well, I missed you too,” he admits, reeling Rick back in and kissing him again.

“Yeah?” Rick slides his hands down Perry’s sides, to his hips, and tries to guide him toward his bed.

“Yeah.” Perry lets Rick push him onto the bed and he sinks heavily into the comforter, like a stone. “The guys in Toledo are all right, but none of them are you.”

Rick laughs and slaps Perry on the chest. “That was cheesy.”

“I thought for sure that line would get me some nookie.” Perry reaches out and tries to lift up Rick’s t-shirt, but he whacks his hand away.

“You thought wrong. Doesn’t hurt to try, though,” Rick says, rolling over, into Perry’s side. He uses Perry’s shoulder for a pillow and closes his eyes. “You’ll have to try harder.”

Perry runs a hand down Rick’s back and up under his t-shirt. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Perry scritches his fingernails lightly between Rick’s shoulder blades. “You feel good.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Rick laughs.

Perry turns his head and presses a light kiss between Rick’s eyebrows. “You’re welcome.”

Rick hunkers down and closes his eyes. Perry’s hand stops rubbing on Rick’s back and his breathing evens out after a few minutes, and eventually Rick drifts off too.

-

A little over a week later, Perry gets shipped back to Toledo. He's packing, haphazardly shoving things into his duffel bag. Rick just watches, doesn’t offer to help this time; he has a feeling Perry would reject it, anyway. Perry mutters to himself under his breath, like he thinks Rick isn’t there or something. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

After a few minutes, Rick finally speaks up.  “You need anything?”

“I’m fine,” Perry says, his tone sharp.  He pauses, a t-shirt dangling from one hand, and straightens up, cracks his spine.  “Sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?” Rick asks.

“Didn’t mean to snap at you.” He drops the shirt in his bag.

“It’s fine,” Rick says.  “I get it.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like it’s your fault.” Perry heads back to his closet and pulls out a couple pairs of ratty blue jeans.  “I mean, I get _why_.  It still sucks.”

Rick steps in and closes the door behind him, gently.  “Yeah.  It does.”

Perry glances over his shoulder at Rick.  “It’s not like _you_ ever got optioned before.  How would you know?”

Rick doesn’t bother to fight him on that.  “You’re right, I don’t.”

Perry sighs again and rubs a hand over his face.  “I’m being an asshole.”

“You’re entitled.” Rick approaches him and reaches out, tugging the blue jeans from his hands.  He tosses them on the bed.  “How long do you think you’ll be down there this time? Did they say?”

“More than a couple hours,” Perry says, laughing a little. “I got stuff I have to work on. The sooner I work on it, the sooner I’ll be back, I guess.”

Rick wraps his hands around Perry’s wrists and pulls him into an embrace.  Perry’s fingers squeeze on his back, and his chin digs into Rick’s shoulder.  Toledo’s only an hour’s drive away, it’s not like Rick couldn’t hop in his car and drive down there to visit him.  

“Maybe you could stay,” Rick says.

“What?  I can’t just refuse to go on assignment,” Perry says, dipping his head into the crook of Rick’s neck.

“That’s not what I meant.  Maybe you could stay here, and just commute to Toledo or something.  It’s only an hour’s drive,” Rick says.  “Plus, you wouldn’t have to live out of a hotel or whatever it is you do when you get sent to Toledo.”

“Simons offered to put me up,” Perry says, reluctantly. 

All three of them—Rick, Perry, and Zach Simons—shared a condo when they were on the Lakeland starting staff the year before, and they’d become pretty tight.  They’d gotten into only the best clubs, routinely missed curfew, pulled in Major League caliber beef, mostly because Rick was the hotshot prospect with the big league contract and the other two rode his coattails. Rick had almost forgotten that Simons even existed.

Rick gently disengages himself and fixes the front of his shirt.  “That’s cool.  I didn’t even know Simons was in Toledo.”

“He got called up a little while ago from Lakeland.” Perry scratches a hand through his hair.  “Look, I should finish packing.”

“Yeah.  Sorry.  I know you have to get out of here,” Rick says, stepping back toward the door.

Perry grabs an armful of clothes out of the closet and Rick takes that as his cue to leave.

Once he’s in the hallway, Rick pulls his phone out of his pocket and fires off a text to Jake.

_Perrys going back 2 Toledo. This sucks so bad!_

Almost immediately, Jake texts back:

_i saw ‘perry’ and ‘sucks’ in the same sentence & got chills down my spine._

Rick laughs to himself, replies with: _no, YOU suck_ , and goes to the kitchen to make himself a pot of coffee.

-

A few weeks later, Rick goes back home to Jersey for the All-Star Break. He’d thought maybe he might get picked for the team, but there are a lot of more established starters having pretty good years. Anyway, Rick’s thankful for the break. It’s been a busy year, busier than he could have ever expected, and he could use the downtime.

Perry calls him from Arizona just as Rick’s dragging his luggage into his childhood bedroom, with almost preternatural timing. Rick collapses on his bed and digs his phone out of his pocket.

“Hey.” He flops on his back and stares up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars he and Jake stuck on the ceiling when they shared the room in middle school. “What’s up?”

“Just got home for the break,” Perry says. “You?”

“Same.” Rick kicks off his shoes and lets his entire body go limp, sinks heavily into the mattress. “Miss you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Perry says. Rick hears loud, happy shouts in the background. “Cut it out, man.”

“What’s going on?”

“Jason’s coming after me with a Super Soaker,” Perry says. “He’s an asshole.”

“He’s your brother. It’s his job.” Rick laughs.

“He’s gonna find himself unemployed if he doesn’t cut it out,” Perry grumbles without much fire. “Enough about him. We haven’t spoke in a while, huh? What’ve you been up to?”

Rick pauses, trying to think of the last time he and Perry actually spoke on the phone, as opposed to all the texting—and, yes, sexting—they’ve been doing. “I don’t really remember. A week, at least?”

“I missed the sound of your voice,” Perry says, in an overly gooey voice that makes Rick cringe.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I did,” Perry insists. “I don’t have anybody to do my laundry down in Toledo. It’s been rough, man.”

“Can’t you just make Simons do it? You’re living with him and he’s the low man on the totem pole,” Rick jokes.

Perry laughs. “Simons is a bossy bitch.”

“Seems like you have a type,” Rick says.

“You saying you’re a bossy bitch?”

Rick rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.”

“I knew it!” Perry sounds victorious. “It’s okay, ’cause I like you.”

“Gee, thanks.” Rick rolls onto his side and pulls a pillow under his head.

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you have any idea when you might be coming back?” Rick asks, burrowing under the covers, still fully dressed. Whatever. He’s exhausted, he doesn’t care.

“Not really. The guys in Toledo seem pretty happy with my progress, which is good.” Perry sighs. “I miss Detroit.”

“Detroit misses you too,” Rick says, stifling a yawn.

Perry snorts softly. “Am I boring you?”

“To death,” Rick says.

“I’ll let you go then.”

Rick yawns again and rubs his thumb into his eye. “I was just kidding.”

“It’s okay. I know it’s pretty late out there.”

Rick closes his eyes and puts his cell on the pillow, next to his head. He sets it to ‘speaker phone.’ “Talk me to sleep.”

“I feel like I should be offended,” Perry says.

“Probably.”

“I’ll tell you a bedtime story. Once upon a time, this awesome guy named Ryan Perry called this not-so-awesome guy named Rick Porcello up and—” Rick feigns snoring and Perry laughs. “Dork.”

“Takes one to know one.” 

“Look, I should probably get going. I have guests,” Perry says, almost apologetically. “Talk to you later?”

“Yeah, Ryan. See you.” Rick waits for him to hang up first before closing his cell phone and dropping it on the nightstand.

He’s out like a light a few minutes later.

-

They go into Yankee Stadium right after the break. Rick all but begs Leyland to be allowed to start the first game of the series, but Leyland’s dead set on giving Rick extra rest. He doesn’t want to overwork his arm, he says. Logically, Rick understands the decision, but _come on_. It’s _Yankee Stadium_. He practically grew up at the old stadium when he was a kid.

Another kid, Luke French, gets the first game of the series instead, and it starts out pretty well. They take an early lead and, for the most part, French cruises through five innings.

Three runs is never enough to win in any incarnation of Yankee Stadium, though. Rick knows that as well as anybody.

Zumaya comes into the game in the seventh to nail things down, and pass the game along to Brandon Lyon and Fernando Rodney.

Rick can’t explain it, but he just feels good about this one.

Zumaya’s wild from the start, though, almost pegs Jeter right in the face with a fastball before he pulls his hands in and takes a high fastball the opposite way for a leadoff single. Rain drips down the bill of Zumaya’s cap and he angrily wipes it out of his eyes before stomping back atop the mound.

The inning unravels quickly after that, and suddenly Rick’s good feeling from before is almost completely extinguished in the thick, unrelenting rain.

Teixeira steps up to the plate, bat wiggling over his left shoulder. Rick braves the rain, leans out over the railing and shouts encouragement toward the field. Zumaya quickly goes three and oh on Teixeira, and Rick can see guys stirring out in the bullpen beyond the left field fence.

Teixeira—and Rick, and everybody else in that goddamn stadium too—knows he’ll be getting a fastball, and he parks it in the second deck in right field. The stadium explodes and Rick covers his ears, but it doesn’t do any good. He can feel the reverberations from the fans and those awful church chimes rattling through him, straight down to his bones.

Zumaya winces on the mound and grits his teeth, struggles to regroup and find the remaining scraps of his composure, and Rick can’t tell if it’s out of frustration or pain.

The rain starts coming down even harder. Rick can feel it on his skin, even in the relative safety of the dugout; when he looks up, he can see it slanting practically sideways.

Zumaya grits his teeth through the rest of the inning and once it’s finally over, he looks up at the sky, rain still coming down in sheets, before walking slowly off the mound.

Rick watches as stadium workers rush onto the field, weaving around the players, to dust the mound and area around home plate with Diamond Dry.

Zumaya clomps down the dugout steps and slams his glove into the Gatorade cooler before marching right for the clubhouse without a word to anyone. Rick doesn’t miss the team trainer hurrying after him.

They end up losing, and a little while later, Rick hears whispers in the clubhouse. “Zumaya’s hurt again,” with a sad little shake of the head. “Surprised it took this long,” someone else says.

Rick finds him in the trainer’s office, right elbow in a navy sling. His face is wet and Rick’s not sure if it’s from the rain, a shower, or because he’d been crying.

“Hey, man. I heard—” Rick begins, but Zumaya cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“It ain’t nothin’ I can’t overcome, _vato_. Nothin’ serious. I’ll be back out there in no time.” Zumaya raises his head and lifts his chin, patting the empty space next to him on the paper-covered examining table. 

Rick obeys and goes over to him. “What happened?”

“I dunno, man. Felt a little somethin’, a little twinge with Damon. Got worse after the homer, though. Maybe it’s just the scar tissue in my shoulder breakin’ up?” Zumaya sounds more optimistic than he has any right to be, Rick thinks, considering his extensive injury history.

“Maybe,” Rick says.

Zumaya sighs. “ ’s always just one thing after another, though, you know?” He pauses. “Nah, you wouldn’t know, you’re just a baby.”

“Come on, man. I’m only, what, four years younger than you?” Rick laughs.

Zumaya pats his injured shoulder gently. “Well, anyways. ’s the third straight year with an injury. Makes you wonder.”

“What do you mean?” Rick asks.

“If this’s all worth it, I guess.” Zumaya drops his hand his lap and kicks his heels against the examining table’s metal legs. “Don’t mind me, _vato_. I’m a little fuzzy ’cause of the meds they put me on. I get a little sentimental sometimes, too.”

“It’s fine, man. You’re entitled,” Rick says, reaching out and patting Zumaya on the knee. He figures it’s safe; as far as he knows, Zumaya’s never done any damage to his legs.

“How you gonna manage without me, that’s the important thing,” Zumaya says.

Rick rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Hey now, don’t you be goin’ to Verlander for advice. I’m your shoulder angel, he’s your shoulder devil. Remember that,” Zumaya says.

“Dude, I’ll be fine. Honest.” Rick grins at him as if to prove it. He tries not to picture Verlander with horns and a pitchfork, although he finds it fits him incredibly well. 

“Alright then,” Zumaya says, placated.

The door _whooshes_ open and—speak of the devil, indeed—Verlander steps in, with an air of regality. 

“Scram, rook. I gotta get in some quality alone time with Zoomy before they take ’im away to the glue factory,” Verlander says, waving Rick off.

“Fuck you, man,” Zumaya says, beaming. Rick can’t tell if he’s genuinely happy to see Verlander or if he’s just stoned out of his mind on pain meds.

Rick hops off the examining table and salutes Verlander, clicking his heels together. “Aye, aye, cap’n.”

“Smart ass.” Verlander smirks and hops up on the table next to Zumaya.

Rick leaves, shutting the door gently behind him, and heads back for the clubhouse to change.

-

Rick gets back to his hotel room after picking up breakfast and grabbing the paper at a newsstand and finds Perry slumped back against the wall, cell phone dangling from one hand.

“Hey.” Rick fishes his keycard out of his pocket.

Perry looks up and grins, bleary-eyed. “Top o’ the morning to you.”

“How long have you been out here?” Rick asks, swiping the keycard through the lock. Rick pushes the door open and Perry follows him in, lugging a bag behind him on rollers.

“Like, twenty minutes,” Perry says, through a massive yawn. “Too bad about Zoom.”

“What about him?” Rick asks.

“You didn’t hear? L.P. said he heard it was a stress fracture in his shoulder,” Perry says, letting go of his bag and beelining for the minibar.

Rick drops his newspaper and paper bag on the table by a sliding glass door. It leads out to a balcony that overlooks the city; Rick can see the darkened light towers of the Stadium from it, off in the distance

“That’s rough,” Rick says, thinking back to the conversation he had with Zumaya the previous night. “He seemed real down.”

“Can’t blame him, man. That shit’s gotta suck.” Perry grabs a bottled water and shuts the minibar. “I’m glad to be back, though.”

Rick joins him by the minibar and leans into his shoulder a little bit. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Perry reaches up and cards his fingers through Rick’s hair. “Good to be back. How much did’ja miss me?”

“Was that a hint?” Rick asks, laughing, letting Perry continue to fuss with his hair.

“That was pretty much a blinking neon sign,” Perry says.

“Subtle.” Rick steps back and pushes Perry toward the bed and he falls back, arms spread out, landing on the comforter with a soft exhale. Rick climbs on top of him. Perry runs a hand down Rick’s side, fingers pressing lightly over his ribs, to his hip.

“That’s me.” Perry grins and squeezes Rick’s hip.

Rick reaches down and starts unbuttoning his blue-and-white pinstriped dress shirt, pushes it open and off his shoulders. Perry catches Rick by the back of his neck and pulls him into a kiss, fingers tangling with the hair at the nape of his neck. Rick parts his lips and Perry does too, sucking Rick’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Perry wraps his other hand around Rick’s hip too, and arches up, bringing their bodies together. Rick can feel it even through the layers of clothing between them and he sighs against Perry’s mouth.

Perry turns his head, mumbles out, “I wanna fuck you.”

Rick drops his forehead against Perry’s shoulder and laughs. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” he says into Perry’s bare skin.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Can you?”

“Can I—oh, fuck you, you grammar nazi.” Perry slips his hands under Rick’s t-shirt and runs his hands up his back. “May I fuck you?”

Rick smirks. “Yes, you may.”

Perry grins up at him in response and nudges Rick off of him, gently. Perry slides his pants and boxers down his hips, and kicks them away. Rick tugs off his t-shirt and hastily wriggles out of his jeans and briefs, leaving them on top of Perry’s clothes in a pile on the floor.

Perry grabs hold of Rick and pulls him back on top, fitting their bodies together, skin on skin. One of Perry’s hands wanders down Rick’s back to squeeze his ass, and Rick rolls his eyes. Perry rolls his hips then, rubbing their cocks together, and Rick ducks his head, biting down gently on Perry’s shoulder. He tightens his hold on Rick at that, at Rick’s teeth on his skin, and Rick can’t help but smirk against Perry’s shoulder. 

“You like that?” Rick asks, his tone is light, teasing. 

“Yeah. Feels good.” Perry rubs his hips against Rick’s again, and wraps a hand around both their cocks. Rick can feel a slow, pleasant warmth building low in his belly and tightening, like a coiled spring.

“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna come,” Rick manages.

Perry snorts. “Buzzkill.” He pulls his hand away and Rick immediately misses his coarse, callused palm. “Condoms?”

“Nightstand,” Rick says.

Perry props himself up on his elbow and throws open the nightstand drawer, rummaging blindly until he comes up with a plastic-wrapped condom and a little squeezey bottle of lube. “Get me ready, Rick,” Perry commands.

Rick rolls his eyes and scoots down Perry’s body a little. He wraps his lips around the head of Perry’s cock and teases him with the tip of his tongue.

“Jesus, fuck.” Perry’s elbow gives out and he flops on his back, bonelessly.

Rick pulls back and circles the head of Perry’s cock with his tongue, in short strokes. He hazards a glance at Perry; his eyes are closed tight and his teeth are tearing into his bottom lip. Rick smirks, feeling kind of smug, pleased that he can get that kind of reaction from Perry.

Perry wraps his fingers in Rick’s hair and tugs gently. “Stop. I’m good.” 

Rick sits up and wipes at his mouth with the pad of his thumb;. He watches Perry’s eyes as they track the movement, hungrily, before he tears his gaze away and starts fumbling with the lube and condom. Perry opens the wrapper, fishes the condom out, and rolls it on, smoothing out the air bubbles with his long pitcher’s fingers.

Rick sits back and watches as Perry pops off the cap to the lube and smears some of the stuff on his fingers before coming after Rick with it.

“Jesus, your fingers are cold,” Rick gasps, when Perry accidentally smears a streak of lube across Rick’s belly.

Perry rubs it off with his thumb. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Rick says. “Wasn’t expecting you to have icicles for hands, though.”

“I’ll warm them up.” Perry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at Rick and pushes his legs wider apart. His fingers are slick and cool, and Rick settles back, letting his eyes close.

It’s uncomfortable at first—Rick hasn’t actually _fucked_ a guy in a while—and he fights the urge to resist Perry’s fingers. Perry works him open quickly, though, and Rick’s practically putty in his hands in no time. Perry knows just what spot to hit and what buttons to push, until Rick feels like he’s about to come just from Perry’s fingers.

“You ready?” Perry asks.

“Yeah,” Rick pants.

Perry withdraws his hand and, Rick thinks, wipes it on the bedsheets; he makes a mental note to scold him later. Perry crawls over him, reaches down and wraps a hand around his cock. His other hand finds Rick’s hip, and he positions them, lines their bodies up.

Perry enters him slowly, almost conscientiously, and Rick tries to lift his hips to meet him halfway, but Perry pins him down with one large, flat palm against his stomach. “Nuh uh.”

Rick squirms under him. “I hate you.”

“You’ll live.” Perry snickers.

“No, I won’t. I’m going to die. I’m going to frigging die because you’re going too goddamn slow,” Rick says.

“I like that you can’t even swear while I’ve got my dick in your ass,” Perry says.

“Shut up.”

Perry jerks his hips and Rick lets out a funny, high-pitched wheezing sound. “Serves you right, Ricky.”

“God, why do I put up—” Rick begins, but Perry cuts him off with a kiss.

Perry starts fucking him hard then, and Rick thinks he’s probably just doing it to shut him up. It works pretty well, actually.

It’s not too long until Rick gets that familiar tight, wound-up feeling at the base of his spine. It spreads through him in a warm wave, timed perfectly with the movements of Perry’s hips. 

Rick digs his nails into Perry’s arm, and he seems to just know Rick’s close. Perry slides a hand from Rick’s waist and wraps it around his cock, stroking in long, deliberate movements. 

Rick tightens his grip on Perry’s arm, manages, “Faster,” but Perry just laughs at him, a low chuckle Rick feels more than hears. Perry slows down his strokes until he’s dragging his hand up and down Rick’s cock tantalizingly slow, still laughing.

Perry is kind of an asshole. It’s okay, though. Rick likes it on him.

That warm, pleasant feeling has intensified, and now Rick feels like every inch of him is on fire. He feels Perry’s mouth on his neck, his teeth on his skin, and that’s all she wrote. Rick lets out an embarrassing noise, body jerking, and arches under Perry, as his orgasm surges through him.

Perry fucks him through it, each thrust setting off little aftershocks, until Perry’s coming too, hips stuttering, breath coming in short, jerky gasps against the side of Rick’s neck.

When he’s done, Perry rolls off Rick and onto his back with a heavy sigh. He removes the condom, ties it off in a knot, and tosses it in a vague, bathroom-ish direction. Rick makes a face when he hears it land on the floor.

“You’re going to clean that up.” Rick pokes him in the chest with his finger.

“Leave me alone. I’m tired.” Perry yawns, as if to prove his point

“If you just got your jizz all over the floor, I swear to God, Ryan—”

Perry shuts up him with another kiss. Rick really doesn’t mind.

-

Rick begins scuffling just as summer starts to melt into the dog days. His arm feels tired, which makes no sense to Rick because he works out like a fiend and keeps hydrated, and basically does everything he possibly can to avoid getting fatigued or overworked in the first place. Leyland skips a start here or there, just to keep Rick fresh, but he still gets rocked.

Rick’s certain he’s next to be sent down to Toledo, but Verlander just says, “Growing pains,” like that explains everything. When Rick doesn’t respond, just blinks at him, uncomprehendingly, Verlander sighs and rolls his eyes. “Dead arm, rook. Happens to the best of us. Fuck, it happened to _me_.”

“I _hate_ this, though. I work out all the time, drink lots of fluids to specifically keep this shit from happening,” Rick complains. He and Verlander stand together by the lip of the dugout and watch the infielders shag ground balls in the dirt before the game against Seattle. “My arm just feels so—so _heavy_. I feel like I can barely lift it over my head sometimes.”

“Like I said, dead arm. Went through it in ’05, first year in pro ball. Hit the wall hard enough they shut me down for good in September. Went through it again in ’06, but I knew what to be on the look out for this time, so I just toughed it out.” Rick watches Verlander track the movements of their teammates as they snag scalded liners and chase after bloop hits in the shallow outfield grass. “You’ll be fine. It’s nothin’ you should worry about. Your arm’s just not used to throwin’ a baseball this much.”

Rick sighs and massages his elbow. He can feel a dull ache in there, deep inside, tangled around the muscles and tendons. “I know. I just hate that it doesn’t feel right. It’s _always_ felt right.”

Verlander clips him on the shoulder with his fist. “It’ll be fine. Don’t stress about it.”

“Easy for you to say,” he mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Verlander asks, flicking his gaze over Rick.

“You’re the golden boy,” Rick says, shrugging his shoulders and folding his arms across his chest.

“And you’re not?” Verlander snorts, smirking at him; Rick wonders if that smirk ever leaves his face. “It’s not like I got everything handed to me. Sure, throwin’ a baseball comes easy, I think I could do it in my sleep, but . . . Sometimes the ball just doesn’t go where it’s supposed to go. Sometimes you got too many people in your ear and you don’t know what’s up and what’s down. It’s just—just stuff you gotta deal with.”

“ ‘Stuff you gotta deal with.’ That’s not helpful at all,” Rick says.

Verlander shoves him in the shoulder. “It’s damn helpful, you just don’t realize it yet.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a tin canister of chew. Verlander pops open the top, rips out a couple black, foul-smelling chunks and tucks them between his cheek and gums.

“I want to know _how_ to deal,” Rick says, sighing.

“There’s no manual, Ricky. It’s just life.” Verlander sticks the canister back in his pocket.

Rick looks at him, brow furrowing. “Why do people keep telling me that,” he asks, thinking of his conversation with Perry about ground rules. 

“ ’Cause it’s true,” Verlander says, around a giant wad of chew. He hawks a glob of spit, tinted brown from the tobacco, into the grass.

Rick makes a face and edges back. “Life’d be a hell of a lot easier if it came with a rulebook.”

“Wouldn’t be near as much fun, though,” says Verlander.

“It also wouldn’t be scary or unpredictable,” Rick points out.

Verlander snorts. “Like I said before. What’s the fun in predictable, anyways?”

Rick looks down at his feet, at the grass underneath. Rick raises his face suddenly toward the sun, and his vision goes blindingly white for a little bit. When he closes his eyes, the backs of his eyelids are bursts of orange. He hears Verlander beside him, the soft rustle of grass under his feet as he shifts his weight.

Perry’s somewhere in the distance, with the rest of the bullpen. Rick thinks he can even hear his voice over all the other noises—the buzzing of insects, the low hum of an airplane overhead, the pop of baseballs into waiting mitts, his own heartbeat—of the ballpark.

He opens his eyes and looks over at Verlander. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Verlander says, spitting out another wad of chew.

“Have you ever been with somebody, like, in a relationship, and not known where it’s going? Like, not even if it was a serious, forever kind of thing, or if it was just to pass the time?” Rick asks.

Verlander snuffs lightly and shrugs his shoulders. “Only really been with Emily, rook.”

“Really?” Rick stares at him in shock. He knew Emily and Verlander had been together for a while, but he’d kind of just assumed there’d been other girls too.

“Yeah, really. I mean, not like I don’t fuck around on occasion, obviously, who doesn’t? But, to answer your question, nope. Never really been with anyone but her. Not when it meant something, at least,” Verlander says. He glances sidelong at Rick. “Why d’you ask?”

“No real reason. Just wondering,” Rick says, aware of how evasive he sounds.

Verlander looks back out at the field. “Right.” He falls silent for a little bit before speaking up again. “There’s no harm in just passing the time with somebody for a little while. Everybody’s in such a goddamn hurry to find the perfect husband or wife, pop out a couple perfect, adorable kids.”

“I’m not planning on getting married and starting a family anytime soon,” Rick says. “I just wonder about this kind of stuff sometimes.”

“Don’t,” Verlander says, shaking his head at him. “You’ll drive yourself nuts.”

Rick guesses he has a point. “Maybe. It’s just—”

“Look, if you spend all your time thinkin’ about the particulars, you’ll tie yourself up into knots,” Verlander says, putting a hand on Rick’s arm. “Believe me, I know. I drove myself nuts last year. Nothin’ was goin’ my way and I kept tryin’ to find a cure, but there _is_ no easy fix.”

“So you’re saying it doesn’t get better.” Rick hikes an eyebrow at him.

“I’m sayin’ there’s no magic elixir. You just gotta—gotta, I dunno, wade through it and come out the other side, somehow,” Verlander says. “It’s what I did. And then, this year, everything just clicked back into place.”

Rick nods and kicks his heels in the grass. “Right.”

Verlander hums a few bars of some vaguely familiar song before reaching out and clubbing Rick on the back. “Glad we could have this talk, rook. I feel all veteran-y now.”

“Veteran-y? Really?” Rick snorts.

“Whatever. Shut up.” Verlander tugs the bill of his navy batting practice cap down over his eyes and trots off, spikes crunching in the infield dirt.

Rick spots Perry in the outfield by the open bullpen gate, slinging a ball around with one of the other guys, when they lock gazes across the field. Perry sort of half-waves at Rick with his mitt and Rick smiles, waves back. The sun is at its highest point in the sky, and Rick can feel the pulsing warmth pierce through his layers.

Perry starts toward him, and Rick goes to meet him halfway, split the difference.

“Hey.” Perry drops his glove on top of Rick’s head and starts cackling.

Rick reaches up and pulls it down, slipping it on and punching his fist into the pocket. “Dork.”

“Hey, don’t break in my glove, man. That’s just wrong.” Perry snatches it off Rick’s hand and coos at it like it’s his baby, or something. Perry slides his hand into the glove and flexes it. 

“You’re just being dumb,” Rick teases.

“Look, now it doesn’t fit right. I’m gonna have to get a new one,” Perry says, haughtily.

Rick rolls his eyes and kicks Perry lightly in the shin. “Loser.”

“You know the rules.” Perry fiddles with the leather straps.

“Are you actually being serious?” Rick asks.

“You know you don’t touch another man’s glove, Ricky,” Perry says.

“Of all the things of yours that I’ve touched, that’s what you have the biggest problem with?” Rick laughs.

Perry thwacks him in the shoulder with the mitt. “It’s in the Baseball Code, Ricky.”

“Take your Baseball Code and shove it where the sun don’t shine.” Rick bats Perry’s mitt away.

Perry grins and whacks him again. “I bet you’d like that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Rick says, dodging the blow and darting behind Perry.

Perry laughs, spinning around. “Make me.”

“Make me make you.” 

Rick tackles him from behind and pulls him down in the outfield grass. Perry rolls onto his back and starts wailing away on Rick, landing a couple soft blows not meant to hurt. Rick grabs for his fists, but Perry knocks his hands away.

“What’s going on here?”

Both Rick and Perry looks up; the bullpen coach is standing over them, hands on his hips. He doesn’t look angry, though, just mildly amused. Rick gets to his feet and offers Perry a hand, but Perry waves him off and gets up, brushing bits of grass off his pants.

“Uh, nothing,” Rick says. “We weren’t really fighting.”

“All right then,” the bullpen coach says, shrugging and pushing past them for the bullpen gate. “Just don’t get yourselves hurt.”

“We won’t,” Rick promises.

-

Rick struggles through the month of July and into August, getting rocked more often than not, until he swears he can’t remember the last time he had a quality start. His arm starts feeling a little better, just like Verlander had said, but the results aren’t really there. Or, they are and then they aren’t. Consistency eludes him.

Then they go into Boston for a big four game series. 

They lose the first game because Jackson’s not sharp at all, and _Brad Penny_ , of all people, manages a quality start. Neither bullpen can hold a lead, but it’s the Tigers’ bullpen that chokes away the game in the end. There’s also some hit-by-pitch bullshit too, and Cabrera takes one off the hand that hurts bad enough he’s forced to come out of the game. 

Rick gets the second game of the series, while the Red Sox send out some willowy, baby-faced Japanese kid to make his first Major League start.

The team gets off to a great start, jumping on the Japanese kid for three early runs, and Rick feels pretty good about things. The ball is coming out his hand better than it has in weeks, maybe months, and his arm actually feels good, fresh.

Then the second inning happens. One pitch, one bad breaking ball, and suddenly Kevin Youkilis is charging the mound like a bull, helmet flying out of his hand. Rick manages to sidestep the helmet, but he can’t sidestep Youkilis. Youkilis lunges and Rick grabs hold of him, twists his hips, and throws him down to the ground.

Everything else happens in a blur of road grays and home whites, as teammates and opponents converge. Someone grabs Rick by the back of his jersey and yanks him out of the pile, shaking him like a rag doll. It’s Gerald Laird, their starting catcher. Rick expects to get a lecture from Laird, but he just laughs and shoves him away from the fracas. His eyes are big and his mouth is cocked into a crooked smile, and Rick thinks Laird is enjoying this more than anybody.

Jackson’s wrapped up the arms of one of their coaches, being forcibly dragged from the pile-up as he spews curse words, while some of the older players, like Ordoñez and Guillén, try to play peacemaker and calm people down. 

Red Sox players are screaming at him from their side of the field, sneering and calling Rick all sorts of names— _asshole pussy okama faggot maricón_ —each and every one looking like they want a piece of him. Fans in the stands are chanting “Throw him out,” over and over, like a mantra. Rick’s brothers and their old high school coach are somewhere in the stands, wearing **Porcello 48** jerseys, watching this all unfold in front of them. Rick hopes they make it out of Fenway intact.

Someone tugs on his elbow and he looks away from the stands. Leyland is wearing a grave look, which Rick thinks suits him pretty well.

“You’re out,” Leyland says, raising his voice to be heard over the screaming fans. “They’re tossin’ you. Go on. Get outta here.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Rick protests, but Leyland waves his hands at him, herding him toward the visitor’s dugout.

“They say you threw at him on purpose,” Leyland says. Rick strains for hints of disappointment, judgment on the old man’s tone but there’s none; actually, he just sounds amused.

“It just got away,” Rick grumbles. 

“I know that,” Leyland mutters, “but it don’t matter. Go on, get out.”

He can feel Leyland at his back, and the eyes of 37,000 fans on him as he storms down the dugout steps.

Rick pops into the empty clubhouse and quickly undresses himself, before running himself a hot shower. He washes the grime of the brawl off of him, and hopes that’ll be that.

-

Rick is wrong. He’s still fucking pissed, even hours later. They get killed after Rick gets kicked out and Cabrera gets pulled. Chris Lambert gets thrown to the wolves, and the Red Sox clobber three home runs off of him and erase the Tigers’ early lead. Rick sits in the clubhouse, watches the carnage in high-definition, and fumes. 

Maybe watching the team unravel like a cheap suit after he gets ejected and Cabrera has to leave because of his injured hand stokes the fires, or something, Rick’s not entirely sure. He’s just pissed, and ready to take off people’s heads after the game. Most of his teammates know not to mess with him, and part like the Red Sea as he makes his way through the clubhouse for the exit.

He can feel Perry at his back, just out of the frame. He follows Rick out of the clubhouse and they drive back silently together to the hotel. Most people would be bugging Rick to talk about shit, but Perry doesn’t. He gets it.

Perry actually gets Rick pretty well—almost as well as Zach and Jake do—which is kind of _weird_. It’s _weird_ to Rick that there’s someone out there who’s not bound to him by blood that gets him almost as well as his family does.

It’s a little scary too, for reasons Rick can’t even discern.

Rick stomps into the hotel room he’s sharing with Perry and throws himself into bed face first like a girl. He’s still so angry over everything he can practically feel the blood boiling in his veins. He pounds his fists into the mattress until he’s sweating and breathing hard, imagining it’s Youkilis’ face.

A hand lands on his back, between his shoulder blades, and rubs. “You gonna keep acting like a little bitch? Or are you gonna come out with the rest of us for drinks?” Perry wheedles, pushing between Rick’s shoulders. The mattress dips as Perry settles next to him. His knee digs into Rick’s side and Rick squirms away a little.

He raises his head and gives Perry a glare. “I’m too fucking mad to go out drinking.”

“Girl,” Perry scolds, breaking into a big grin. He slips his hand away. “You oughta come out with us, Ricky. It’ll help get your mind off things, especially your impending suspension.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Rick turns and shoves his head under his pillow. “I hate the fucking Red Sox.”

“Hey now, that’s the team I grew up following,” Perry says, lifting the pillow off Rick’s head.

“You grew up in California,” Rick points out.

“Yeah, but my mom is a Sox fan,” Perry says, shrugging. “I just picked it up from her.”

“Bad habits die hard, I guess,” Rick pouts.

Perry starts laughing. “Come on. So you got ejected. You’ll probably get suspended too. Whatever, big fuckin’ deal. Anyways, I heard from Inge that Miggy wants to pay for all your drinks for the rest of the season for the way you stood up to those fuckers.”

“I hit a guy in the back with a bad breaking ball,” Rick says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “How’s that worthy of praise? Or free drinks?”

“You knew what the situation called for, though,” Perry says, giving Rick his best _well, duh_ look. “You could’ve just thrown behind him, like you did with Martinez, or not even done anything at all.”

“Whatever,” Rick says, dismissively. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Come on, Ricky. Miggy’ll be expecting you and you don’t wanna disappoint him,” Perry grins, tugging on Rick’s sleeve.

Rick sighs and slicks his hands through his hair until it’s standing up in a million different directions. “Do I have to?”

Perry grins. “Yes!”

Rick slugs him in the chest. “I hate you almost as much as I hate the Red Sox right now.”

Perry rubs his chest and narrows his eyes at Rick. “What’s your deal, man? It’s just a couple drinks. You wouldn’t even have to pay, anyways.”

“That’s not the point. I don’t want to go out. Especially not in Boston,” Rick says, giving Ryan gentle shove. “I’ll probably get lynched.”

“I’ll be there to protect you,” Perry says.

“Then we’ll both get lynched,” Rick says.

Perry rolls his eyes. “You’re being a brat.”

“And you’re being annoying,” Rick counters, crossing his arms over his chest. “I felt the best I’ve felt in weeks, maybe even _months_ , and it all just gets washed out because of fucking Youkilis. I’m pissed off about it, so sue me.”

“There’s no point in dwelling on it,” Perry says. “It’s over and done with. On to the next one.”

“Did you even hear what I just said?” Rick asks, sighing and rubbing his hands over his face. He tugs at his hair.

“Yeah, you felt like crap until tonight. Then you got ejected. I really don’t see what the big deal is.” Perry picks at a piece of lint on the stiff hotel bedspread.

Rick punches the mattress again. “Are you being purposely dense?”

“I get it, man. Honestly, I do. I don’t blame you for being frustrated, but Jesus Christ, you don’t have to take your shit out on me,” Perry snaps, chopping Rick on the back of his hand.

“I’m not taking—”

“You are.” Perry cuts him off sharply, snagging a loose thread between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re frustrated or whatever. It’s not my fault.”

“I just don’t understand how you don’t get it,” Rick says.

“I don’t get it ’cause it doesn’t make any sense.” Perry twists the thread and tugs at it.

“Stop that. You’re going to ruin the bedspread,” Rick says, knocking his hand away.

“Don’t do that,” Perry says, glaring at him. 

“Don’t do what,” Rick asks, “don’t get you to not rip apart the bedspread?”

“No. Just, forget it.” Perry gets up and digs his hands deep in his pockets. “I’m gonna go out with the guys. They’ll understand why you’re not there.”

Rick sighs, flops on his back, and pulls his pillow back over his face. “Fine.”

“Fine. See you.” Perry leaves, shutting the door gently behind him with a click. Rick is almost disappointed; Perry can’t even slam a door during a fight.

Rick pushes the pillow aside and stares at the ceiling. Verlander’s advice made the prospect of surviving his rookie year sound so easy. 

Rick’s not so sure anymore.

-

Rick sits in the back of the plane on the flight back to Detroit Metro, alone. Perry’s up front somewhere, chilling with Verlander or whoever, Rick’s not too sure. They haven’t said much to each other since their stupid fight about—Rick doesn’t even know what it was about. All he knows is it was stupid, and almost entirely his fault.

Actually, scratch the almost; it was _entirely_ Rick’s fault.

He can see the back of Perry’s head a few seats ahead, big black headphones hanging around his neck. Rick thinks about going up and sliding into the seat next to him, but he can’t seem to make himself get out of his seat. He probably wouldn’t be welcome, anyway.

“This seat taken?”

“Make yourself at home,” Rick says, waving a hand over the empty seat next to him.

Verlander plops down and reclines, propping his feet up on the armrest in front of him. “What’re you doin’ just mopin’ by yourself back here?”

“I’m not moping,” Rick says, not even bothering to sound convincing.

“You’re definitely mopin’.” Verlander closes his eyes and rests a hand over his chest.

“If you just came back here to bug me, you’re doing an awfully good job,” Rick says, snorting out a little laugh.

Verlander slants a sidelong glance at Rick. “Good. Mission accomplished.” Verlander’s mouth jerks almost involuntarily into a smirk. “Is it about the game?”

“No, it’s not. I’m fine, really.” Rick quickly scans the cabin for an escape, some sort of out, but there’s nothing. He’s boxed in with Verlander in the aisle seat. The airplane escape hatch is too far away. “Still kind of pissed off about the game, I guess.”

Verlander _hm_ s, lilting and singsongy. “Your start?”

“Yeah,” Rick says, kicking his feet a little like a child. “I felt great and the ball was coming out of my hand great, and—and fucking _Youkilis_.” Rick spits the name out like a bad taste.

“Them’s the breaks,” Verlander says, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms behind his head.

“ ‘Them’s the breaks’? That’s it? Where’re the wise, veteran reassurances or the nuggets of advice?” Rick knows he sounds like a brat right now, but he doesn’t care anymore.

“That’s all I got, kid,” Verlander says, closing his eyes.

Rick sighs and rubs his thumb between his eyebrows. Perry’s sharp, braying laughter cuts through his thoughts like a hot knife through butter and he immediately tenses. He reaches out and taps Verlander on the shoulder. “Hey, Ver, did you live with anyone your rookie year? Or were you so special, you got a place all to yourself?”

“Me and Emily got a place together,” Verlander says, turning to look back over at Rick. “Why?”

“Just wondering if it’s normal to want to kill your roommate sometimes,” Rick mutters.

“I guess. Me and Emily have been together for nearly ten years and we don’t always get along,” Verlander replies, shrugging. “Perry gettin’ on your nerves?”

“You could say that,” Rick says.

Verlander drums his long fingers on the armrest. “Is it girls again? Or somethin’ else?”

“Something else. He hasn’t brought any girls around in a while. Probably worried they’ll dump his ass once they see how hot I am,” Rick snarks half-heartedly.

“Well, it’s a long season. Six months is a long time to be livin’ with somebody you’re not fuckin’ or related to, anyways,” Verlander says, with a little chuckle.

Rick sinks down in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re telling me.”

-

The league ends up slapping Rick with a five-game suspension and, after a brief appeal, he accepts it and starts serving it out. Leyland tells him it’ll only help him, keep his arm fresh and ready for the “stretch run.” Rick just thinks about the five days he’ll have to spend away from the park and can’t imagine a scenario in which he doesn’t completely lose his mind by the third day.

Leyland turns out to be right, of course. Rick comes back twelve days later and his arm feels the best it’s felt in weeks, maybe even months. His side-sessions all go smoothly, pitches doing what he wants them to do, going where he wants them to go, and it’s great, exhilarating. He feels like he finally has control again.

The great side-sessions don’t translate to great games, though. Rick’s control and command fades out after a sharp, clean first inning, and he gets rocked in Oakland. Jack freaking Cust, of all people, takes him yard twice and, once the dust settles, the Tigers have lost two of three to the Athletics.

Then Minnesota wins in K.C. and even though nobody will admit it, Rick knows they feel the Twins breathing down the backs of their necks. All sports talk radio can, well, talk about is 2006, collapses, divisions lost on the final day of the season.

“This ain’t 2006,” Inge announces to the mostly empty clubhouse before their game in Kansas City.

It’s early September now, the Twins just won’t fucking lose, and the fans are still panicking. They’ve all gotten pretty good at not letting outside factors get to them, but they’re human and some of it still sneaks through, past their defenses.

“I didn’t say anything,” Rick says, as he bends down and pulls on thick navy socks, shoving his feet into his cleats. He laces them up and turns to grab his jersey off a hanger in his locker.

“I know you didn’t,” Inge says, trotting over to Rick’s locker. “It’s just all anybody’s talkin’ about, these days. Minnesota this, Minnesota that. Sick and tired of hearin’ about them.”

“Aren’t we all.” Rick buttons up his jersey, tucks it into his pants, and loops his belt through the metal clasps. His glove is waiting for him on the top shelf of his locker, oiled, laces freshly tightened. Rick pulls it down and slips it onto his hand.

He heads for the dugout, and eventually makes his way across the field, over gritty infield dirt and soft, lush green grass, to the visitors’ bullpen.

The pitching coach, Rick Knapp, is leaning against a wall with a clipboard tucked under one arm, observing one of Rick’s teammate’s side-sessions. Perry is lounging in a folding chair, chugging down a bottled water.

Rick plops down on an empty chair next to Perry and shrugs off his nylon warm-up jacket. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Perry caps his water bottle and rests it against his knee.

Rick discreetly bumps his knee against Perry’s. “Barely seen you around lately,” he says.

“I know,” Perry says. He knocks his bottled water against Rick’s leg. “Needed the space, you know?”

Rick nods and looks back toward the green field stretched out in front of them. One of the outfielders backs up right against the fence to snag a fly ball in his outstretched glove. “Yeah. I do.”

“You’re not mad, are you?” Perry asks.

“Why would I be mad? We don’t always have to be in each other’s back pockets,” Rick says.

“Well, good, ‘cause I just thought . . .” Perry trails off.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he finally says, twisting the cap off again and taking another slug from his bottle. Perry glances at Rick before looking away. “Everything kinda sucks right now.”

“What do you mean?” Rick asks.

Perry looks down at his right hand as if it’s betrayed him. “The ball’s not coming out right. It’s going all over the place. Everywhere but in the strikezone.” Perry curls his fingers.

Rick puts his hand out to pat Perry on the knee, but thinks better of it and lets his hand drop to his side. “You’ve just got to—I don’t know—keep at it. Keep at it until you bust through to the other side.”

“Where’d you pick that up? An ‘inspirational sayings’ wall calendar?” Perry rolls his eyes and flips the ball in his hand.

“Verlander, actually,” Rick says.

Perry snorts. “Verlander’s a walking Pez dispenser of advice now?”

Rick shrugs. “Talking to him helps.” 

“Whaddaya talk to him about?” Perry asks.

“All kinds of stuff. But mostly how to deal.”

“With baseball?”

“Baseball, the ‘being in the Majors’ thing. Life. You.” Rick sits back and crosses his arms over his chest.

Perry arches his eyebrows. “You don’t know how to deal with me?”

“Not particularly, no,” Rick says.

Perry smirks and looks back to the field. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Oh,” Perry says, sounding almost deflated. “I don’t know how to deal with you either.”

“Probably a good thing I haven’t got you all figured out yet,” Rick says.

“How d’you figure?” 

Rick and Perry meet gazes. “I’d probably get bored with you. There’d be no mystery left.”

“So, you like the mystery.”

Rick ducks his head and hides a smile from Perry’s prying eyes. “That’s not the only thing, but yeah kind of. You keep me on my toes. I never really know what to expect, you know?” 

“Well, that’s good then,” Perry says.

“Yeah,” Rick says, glancing down at the glove on his left hand. He picks at the webbing. “It is.”

-

Rick blinks, and suddenly the large lead they’d enjoyed has been whittled down to nothing with only one game left to play. If they lose, they’ll be eliminated. No team has ever given up a three game lead with four left to play, but part of Rick—that nagging, pessimistic voice at the back of his head he’s tried so desperately to shut up—thinks they’ll be the first.

He knows he has no real reason to think that. Maybe it’s just something he feels has been coming for months, Rick’s not really sure. It—a final showdown with the Twins— _has_ felt inevitable, though, even when they had that seven game lead with a month to go. It has always felt like they were holding on by the skin of their teeth.

Verlander gets the ball in game 162. Rick can’t possibly imagine the pressure he’s under, but he knows Verlander, knows that out of everyone in the rotation, Verlander can handle this kind of stuff the best. He’s pitched in All-Star Games, the postseason, the World Series.

Leyland pulls Rick into his office afternoon and tells him, while his teammates are taking batting practice, that he’ll get the ball for game 163. Rick wants to ask, _But what if there_ isn’t _a game 163_ , but he holds his tongue. 

Leyland tucks an unlit, unfiltered cigarette in the corner of his mouth and fumbles around in his desk drawer until he comes up with a plastic lighter. “I think you can do it, kid.” He looks Rick right in the eyes and the corners of his mouth twitch up in a barely-there smile.

Rick sits back and lets the news wash over him. _What if I mess it up_. _What if I blow it_? _What if I let everyone down_? He says, “Thank you,” because he can’t think of anything to say that isn’t self-deprecating and insecure.

“You’re welcome,” Leyland grunts, layering on the gruffness and visibly suppressing a smile. “Now go on, get outta here.”

Rick does as he’s told, and scampers out of Leyland’s office to find Perry and tell him the news. Rick runs into him in the clubhouse and he’s practically vibrating right out of his skin. Perry probably thinks he’s lost his mind or something.

“What’s going on?” Perry asks, sounding just a bit concerned.

“Leyland’s giving me the ball in game 163,” Rick spits out in an exhilarated rush.

“Dude, that’s awesome. We should celebrate after we win tonight,” Perry says, his firm tone brooking no argument.

“Of course,” Rick says, wanting to reach out and touch Perry. This time he lets himself; he clips him on the shoulder, but allows his hand to linger there for maybe a split second too long.

Perry smiles. “I’m honestly pumped for you, man. This is _definitely_ worthy of a celebration.”

Rick grins back. “My place or yours?”

“Yours, duh.” Perry winks.

-

Verlander handcuffs the White Sox to force a one-game play-in. 

Game 163, they’re calling it. The one for all the marbles. Do or die. Rick’s game.

He tries not it think about it too much, tries not to freak out, but it’s really fucking hard not to. Everything they’ve been working toward the last eight months or so is on the line—and it’s all up to Rick to not fuck it up.

Now, he kind of knows how Verlander felt, with the weight of game 162 and elimination resting on his back. Rick doesn’t really know what to think about it all, either. He’s not Verlander. He’s not going to cut through the Twins’ batting order like a knife. He’s not going to blow them all away with high nineties cheese. 

He’s entirely ordinary. There are hundreds of pitchers in the league like Rick, with varying levels of success—or failure—and he can’t even begin to imagine what this is going to feel like. Rick’s won a state championship, even thrown a no-hitter in high school, but he’s never pitched in a game as important as this, on a stage as big and bright.

Verlander says, “Don’t think so much.”

Rick looks up at him, concentration shattered. “What?”

“Don’t think. Just go out there and do,” Verlander says.

“How can I not? I’m not you. I can’t just get by on my stuff,” Rick says, glancing down at his hands, which are clasped between his knees. He starts tapping his feet in a nervous rhythm. Maybe he’ll be able to tap all the nervous, excited energy out of his body before game time or something.

“No, you don’t have my stuff,” Verlander agrees, loping over to lean against Rick’s locker, “but you’re here for a reason. You’re good. Just believe it, for once.”

“I _do_ believe it,” Rick says.

“I don’t think you really do. Hear me out,” Verlander says, holding up a hand to silence any protests. “I think you, I dunno, I think you say what you think the higher ups wanna hear from you, but I don’t think you really believe you deserve to be here.”

Rick looks away and starts shuffling his feet on the drab carpet. “I guess I have doubts. But who doesn’t?”

“I don’t,” Verlander says.

“You don’t have to wonder if your stuff’s good enough to get by. If you lose your fastball, you have four other pitches you can go to. If I lose my sinker, I’m fucked,” Rick snaps.

“Don’t think like that.” Verlander leans in, as if to impart some kernel of wisdom. “If you don’t believe you can win, the Twins are gonna see that and they’re gonna kill you. Even if you don’t have it, you gotta make _them_ think you do.”

Rick sits back in his stall and tucks his arms behind his head, absorbing this and turning it over in his head. “I guess that kind of makes sense.”

“Of course it does,” Verlander says, scoffing. He pushes away from Rick’s locker. “Break a leg, rook.”

“Thanks,” Rick says, watching Verlander’s back as he trots out of the clubhouse. He can already feel the vibrations of the fans in the air, under his feet. “I’ll try.”

-

Rick does try. He gives everything he has, gives until his tank is running on empty, but it’s still not enough. For a little while it seems like the game is theirs, like the baseball gods have smiled on them, but then the Twins start coming back. Every time they put a little distance between them, the Twins answer. Then funny things start happening, like Raburn losing a ball in the Metrodome lights and turning a single into a triple, and then Randy Marsh missing a hit by pitch and costing the Tigers a run. They go into the bottom of the fifteenth tied at five, and Rodney talks Leyland into letting him pitch a third inning of relief. Rick can’t blame him; he wishes he could still be out there too.

The Twins cap off the comeback in the fifteenth, as Rick watches—right shoulder wrapped in ice and Ace bandages—from the dugout railing, fingernails chewed down to the nubs. Rodney gives up a single to Carlos Gomez, a walk to Delmon Young, and then Alexi fucking Casilla, of all people, ends it with a dinky little single that scoots through the infield and scores Gomez.

Twins players spill out of the home dugout, and the crappy old Metrodome is practically rocking off its foundation. Rick wonders if the fans will blow the pillowy dome right off the place. It’d at least give them a reason to finally blow it up. 

Rick feels queasy, like everything he ate for his pre-game meal is about to come back up. 

A hand lands on his shoulder and he raises his head; Verlander gives him a thin-lipped nod, before slipping away down the dugout steps. Rick looks over and spots Laird at the end of the bench, head in his hands, fingers tearing at his thinning black hair.

Guys trot in from the bullpen forlornly, heads hanging. Someone is consoling Rodney, one hand cupping the back of his head, knocking his crooked cap even more askew, and the other curled in the front of his jersey.

Rick decides he can’t handle it anymore, and goes back to the clubhouse to shower and change.

Part of him thinks he should have done more, should have given Leyland a compelling reason to leave him in there. Rick wonders if the result of this game will make the fans scream for Leyland’s head the way they did when he gave the ball to Alfredo Figaro that final weekend instead of Verlander. Maybe they’ll try to run Rick out of town alongside him.

“You did good, Ricky.” Perry sidles up to Rick by his locker, still dripping from his shower, a towel knotted loosely around his slim waist.

“I appreciate it, but I kind of don’t want to hear it right now,” Rick says, as he tugs off his undershirt and digs around in his locker for a towel and some shampoo.

“It wasn’t your fault we lost. And we did the best we could,” Perry says, sounding a little defensive. “No need to get . . . I dunno, pissy about it.”

“I’m not being pissy,” Rick grumbles. He’s being pissy and he knows it; he just hates that Perry’s called him out on it.

“You are,” Perry says.

“Aren’t _you_?” Rick glances at him over his shoulder.

Perry shrugs. Shower water drips from his jawline, down the side of his neck. “Sure I am. But there’s only so much you can control.”

Rick turns away and stares at the back of his locker. “Can we do this when we get back to the hotel instead?”

“Sure,” Perry says, and he shuffles off.

Rick takes his time in the shower, running through all the poor pitch selection in his mind until it’s all he can see when he opens his eyes, mind projecting flat, elevated sinkers and sloppy breaking balls against the chipped bathroom tile. He keeps running the pitch selection to Kubel over and over in his mind until he realizes the water’s run cold, shivering, and his teeth are rattling around like coins in a plastic cup.

Rick turns the shower knobs until the water slows to a faint trickle, wraps his towel around his waist, and hops out.

Perry is waiting for him in the clubhouse, propped up casually against Rick’s locker. He thumbs through some texts and scrapes the sole of his Nike back and forth on the carpet.

“Hey,” Rick says, walking over and joining him by his locker.

“Your lips are blue,” Perry says, mouth twisting into a tiny smile.

“Yeah. Kind of lost track of time.” Rick glances around quickly before dropping his towel and grabbing a fresh change of clothes.

“No one’s here,” Perry says, reaching out and running his hand down Rick’s back.

Rick jerks away and glares at him. “Come on, Ryan. What if, like, Laird realized he left his wallet behind and came back in?”

Perry hikes his eyebrows and wrinkles his nose. “Laird? Really? Your sex fantasies need some work.”

Rick swats him with the towel and digs around in his locker until he comes up with a pair of boxers, which he pulls on. “Gross, Ryan.”

“Just saying,” Perry says, pocketing his cell phone.

Rick steps into a pair of jeans and pulls them up. “You’re crazy,” he says, buttoning them and taking a shirt off a hook in his locker. He slips it on and smoothes out the wrinkles.

“I thought that was part of the appeal,” Perry says, snagging his finger in one of Rick’s belt loops.

Rick lets himself be tugged into Perry’s side. If anyone wanders back into the clubhouse, he’ll just tell them he tripped. They’re probably the last people left in this giant garbage bag masquerading as a stadium, anyway. “That’s some of it.”

Perry seems pleased and tousles a handful of Rick’s hair. “What’s the rest of it, then? Stroke my ego.”

Rick rolls his eyes and pushes away from Perry to finish dressing. “Your ego doesn’t need any more stroking,” Rick says.

Perry raises his eyebrows suggestively. “That’s what she said.”

Rick slugs him in the arm. “Let’s go home, okay?”

Perry grins. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, rubbing his arm.

-

Rick goes back to New Jersey, to his parents’ home in Chester, to his old bedroom that’s still decorated in blue and orange, and still has a poster of Gary Carter taped to the inside of his closet. The first thing he notices when he nudges open the door with the toe of his sneaker is his trophy case, with all his medals, trophies, ribbons, even his Little League baseball cards in their plastic holders.

Rick opens the glass case and picks up an autographed Jeter ball in its plastic cube, inspecting the loopy, ornate signature. Jeter had always been his mom’s favorite, but Rick had grown up loving Mike Piazza, Robin Ventura and, for some inexplicable reason, Benny Agbayani. His entire family is made up of Yankees fans so, of course, Rick decided when he was old enough to understand that baseball was what he wanted to do for the rest of his life, he was going to love the Mets and only the Mets. He always did go for the underdog.

Rick gently places the Jeter ball back in the trophy case and closes it.

He hears footsteps in the hallway and when he looks up his mom is standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a ratty looking dishrag. “Are you hungry? I made some sausage and red peppers, and—”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Rick says, turning away from the trophy case, toward the bags on his bed. “I’m not gonna stay too long, actually. Just wanted to stop by, get my bearings, you know.”

His mom nods, looking almost disappointed, and slings the dishrag over her shoulder. “How’re you holding up?”

“Fine,” Rick says, offering her what he means to be a reassuring smile. She must not be convinced, because she lingers in the doorway. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

“I don’t know, you seem kind of . . .” She waves a hand at him, apparently at a loss for words. “You seem different, somehow.”

Rick wonders if she can tell just from looking at him that he’s gay. He always did kind of think his mom had a sixth sense when it came to things her boys weren’t telling her. “I had an—interesting year, I guess you could say.”

“I bet,” his mom says, nodding and smiling. “I’ll leave you alone, if you want.”

“I’ll be down in a little while for dinner,” Rick says. “Then I should probably get home.”

His mom sighs and laughs a little, almost wistfully. “Still haven’t gotten used to you calling anyplace else home.” She turns to leave and closes the door gently behind her.

Rick pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and flips it open, pressing Perry’s number in his contacts. The phone rings a couple times before Perry picks up. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, me. What’s up?” Perry sounds like he’s gnawing on something.

“Just got home. You?”

“Chillin’ at Denver International, waiting out a layover,” Perry says, smacking his lips. Rick hears the crinkling of plastic. “I’ve got another hour. Entertain me, Ricky.”

“Uh, my mom is making me a snack,” Rick says.

“I said ‘entertain me,’ not ‘bore me to death,’ ” Perry teases.

“Hey, you know I’m boring,” Rick says.

Perry laughs. “You’re not _that_ boring. Give yourself some credit here, Ricky.”

Rick sighs. “Why do you insist on calling me Ricky?”

“Because you complain about it,” Perry says, laughing some more. “I got an idea, all of a sudden.”

“Uh oh,” Rick says. “Should I be worried?”

“Maybe,” Perry says. “I want you to come visit me in Phoenix.”

“Like, now?” Rick asks.

“No, not now,” Perry scoffs. “I meant, like, after we both got settled in and stuff. I think it’d be kinda cool to just spend some time together. Maybe we could build that fort.”

“ _What_?” Rick laughs.

“That badass fort in the middle of nowhere,” Perry continues. “You, me, a tent, the Arizona desert. Maybe some coyotes or a cactus as our only companions.”

“The coyotes would probably eat me,” Rick says.

“I’d protect you,” Perry says.

“Gee, thanks.” Rick sits on the end of his bed and kicks his shoes off, wiggling his toes.

“So, okay, maybe leave the tent at home. But I think you should come out anyways,” Perry says.

“Your parents won’t be weird about you inviting a teammate out there?” Rick asks.

“My parents like you. You met them, remember?” Perry says.

“Yeah, I know. But still, it’s the offseason. Family time, and all,” Rick says.

Perry snorts. “They practically think of you like family, Ricky. They won’t care.”

“How much do they know about us, anyway?” Rick asks, lying down and resting a hand over his chest. He looks up at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets he and Jake had stuck up there when they were kids.

“They know you’re my best friend and we lived together in Detroit,” Perry says. “That’s all. They don’t really need to know anything more.”

“Yeah,” Rick says.

“You okay?” Perry asks.

“I’m fine,” Rick says, making a slight face. “I know you can’t exactly tell your parents I’m your—your whatever.”

“My whatever?” Perry sounds amused.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not exactly like I’m your boyfriend. But I’m not exactly a booty call either.” Rick rolls his eyes at himself.

“Booty call? Really?” 

“You know what I mean,” Rick says.

“Yeah,” Perry agrees. “And you’re not. My booty call, I mean. If I just wanted anonymous sex, I would’ve put an ad on Craigslist.”

Rick laughs. “Gross.”

“You started it.” Rick can hear a woman’s disembodied voice in the background. “Hey, my gate’s loading, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay. Bye,” Rick says.

“See ya, Ricky.” Perry hangs up.

Rick drops his phone on the nightstand next to his bed and goes downstairs for dinner.

-

Rick manages to escape off to Phoenix without much fanfare. His parents don’t really care that much what he does now that he doesn’t live at home anymore. He just says, “I’m going to meet up with some buddies for a week,” and that’s that. His mom doesn’t even bug him about where he’s going or whether or not he has enough clean clothes for the trip.

Rick realizes, as he gets off the plane and takes in his surroundings, that he doesn’t fit in here, in Phoenix. Everything is earthy colors and bright, white-hot heat, and Rick immediately regrets the long-sleeved denim shirt and black slacks he’d worn for the trip. An older couple walks past him, holding hands and wearing matching touristy t-shirts with **WELCOME TO SEDONA** on the front in puffy paints.

He finds Perry waiting for him by baggage claim, flipping through a tabloid.

“Hey.” Rick drags his bag after him and walks up to Perry, kicking him in the sole of his sneaker.

Perry looks up and grins. “Hey. Long time, no see.”

“Feels like I just saw you a few days ago, actually,” Rick says. Game 163 is still fresh in his mind, and the pain and disappointment of losing are still there, but they’re blunted now, edge taken off. A few days away from the game has dulled them into something manageable.

Perry gets up, puts his magazine down, and pulls Rick into a one-armed dude hug. “Missed you, anyway, man.”

“Missed you too,” Rick says, patting Perry low on the chest. He pulls his hand back before it starts wandering. “What sort of adventures did you have planned?”

“Well, we’re obviously going to Sedona. And the casino, gotta go to the casino,” Perry says.

“Casino?” Rick asks.

“The Casino Arizona in Salt River,” Perry says. “Unless you had other things you wanted to do.”

Rick picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I was kinda hoping just to spend some time with you. I don’t really care what we do.”

Perry shrugs and flicks Rick in the ear with his fingernail. “Boring. You gotta pick something, or else I’ll choose and we don’t want that.”

Rick shies away and rubs at the shell of his ear. “Okay, fine. We can go camping with the coyotes or whatever,” he says.

Perry grins. “I bought a tent and camping supplies.”

Rick snorts and slaps him on the chest. “Let’s go, then.”

-

They end up pitching the tent in Perry’s backyard because neither of them really feels like hiking in the Arizona desert. They’d just gotten finished with a 162—okay, 163—game season, and hiking and camping kind of sounded like a lot of work, anyway.

Rick is curled up on his sleeping bag, flipping through a paperback he picked up at the airport, while Perry is lying next to him, eyes closed. Rick lowers the book and follows the shallow movement of Perry’s chest as he breathes, _in out in out_.

“You awake?” Rick asks, tucking a bookmark between the pages and setting the book aside.

“Sort of,” Perry mumbles. He rubs a hand over his bare chest and blinks his eyes open. “Why?”

“No real reason,” Rick says, crawling a little closer to Perry and joining him on his sleeping bag. Perry lolls his head onto Rick’s bare shoulder and Rick scratches his fingers in his short blond hair. “This is nice.”

“What is?” Perry asks.

“The tent, hanging out here with you,” Rick says, tracing patterns on Perry’s bare skin.

Perry closes his hand around Rick’s and holds it over his chest. “Kinda makes everything else not matter as much at the moment,” Perry says. 

“Yeah, kinda,” Rick agrees.

Perry opens his eyes and flicks them over to Rick. “I’m glad you’re here.” He runs his fingertips lightly over the back of Rick’s hand.

“So am I," Rick says.

Perry smiles up at him, stilling his fingers over the back of Rick’s hand. Rick leans down and kisses him, slipping his hand free of Perry’s to catch him by the back of the neck. His skin is warm, and his mouth tastes like beer.

Everything is perfect.

-

Everything is so perfect for a little while that Rick doesn’t notice when the edges start fraying. Sure, they fight, but every couple fights. Just the other day, Perry started ripping on Rick about _It’s Always Sunny_ , which you just don’t fucking do, and then Rick picked a stupid fight with Perry over his love of Miller Light— “It’s fucking horse piss!” “It is _not_!”—in retaliation, and they didn’t speak for a whole day. It happens.

Sometimes there’s yelling, and even shoving. One time they get into a wrestling match in the middle of the living room that ends with Rick sitting on top of Perry, pushing his face into the carpet until he waves the figurative white flag. 

There’s almost always make-up sex later, too. A tiny part of Rick thinks Perry picks fights just so they can have loud, angry post-fight sex and Rick’s not one to complain.

The longer he stays, though, the louder and angrier the fights seem to get, and not even sex can smooth everything over afterwards. Sometimes Perry broods for days afterward; sometimes it’s Rick who broods. He just figures it’s no big deal, things will go back to normal, the way they were before—before _what_? Before Rick came out to Arizona? Earlier than that?

It starts to feel like there’s this constant, low-level band of tension wrapped around Rick’s chest and he doesn’t even know why.

It’s all his own doing, anyway. Perry’s been nothing but awesome, and Rick really has enjoyed their time together. He’s really got no reason to feel like—like the roof’s about to cave in on them or something.

Part of Rick wants to know _why_ he feels this way—has felt this way for a while now, actually—but a wiser part of him knows if he pokes at it, he might not like what he finds. And his mom always told him not to look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever. His mom’s nugget of homespun wisdom seems appropriate now, even if he’s not really sure what it means.

Eventually, Perry notices something’s up. Or, at least, Rick suspects he does, because suddenly he starts acting all nice and sweet and _suspicious_. It’s not like Perry to act nice and sweet unless there are strings attached; usually he’s after sex, or attention, or something. He’s kind of like a puppy in that way (which is kind of weird, Rick freely admits).

“I feel like you’re fattening me for slaughter,” Rick says.

Perry drops a couple paper bags of Chinese takeout on the dining room table. “What? Why would I do that,” he asks, in the most disgustingly syrupy voice imaginable that gives Rick a chill down his spine.

“You’ve been really nice lately.” Rick digs into one of the bags and pulls out some Styrofoam cartons and plastic-wrapped chopsticks.

“I didn’t know that was a bad thing,” Perry snarks, snagging a carton and one of the sets of chopsticks. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the face, or whatever.”

“Mouth,” Rick says, automatically. He opens a carton of rice and unwraps his chopsticks. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s something my mom says all the time.”

“Okay, face, mouth, same thing. Whatever. Just saying, maybe don’t question it so much,” Perry says. He spears a chunk of meat with one of his chopsticks and pops it in his mouth.

“That’s not how you use chopsticks,” Rick says, bypassing the hanging curve Perry’s just lobbed right down the middle of the plate for him. He dumps some sweet and sour sauce on his rice and mixes it in.

“Do I look like I care?” Perry stabs at another chunk of meat. “I’m sure the Chinese people don’t give a shit how I use my chopsticks.”

“You never know,” Rick says. “Ni might get pissed off if he saw what you were doing to your food right now.”

“He’s not Chinese, asshole. He’s from Taiwan.” Perry stabs a piece of green pepper and then a piece of broccoli. “Anyways, who the fuck cares? You’re deflecting from the real issue here, as per usual.”

“Which is?” Rick raises his eyebrows at Perry, silently urging him to continue on.

“That you don’t trust me.” Perry sucks the piece of broccoli off his chopstick. “If you trusted me, you wouldn’t be all suspicious ‘cause I’ve been nice to you lately, or whatever.”

“It’s not a matter of trust—” Rick begins, but Perry waves a hand at him dismissively.

“Of course it is. Why else would you say shit like that, man?” Perry glares at him, blue eyes sparking angrily. “Why do I always have to have some sort of ulterior motive? Why can’t I just be nice to the guy I—I’m seeing because . . . I don’t know. Because I fucking feel like it?”

“Because that’s not how you work? Because I _know_ you?” Rick fires back, dinner forgotten for the moment.

“Oh, fuck you, Rick. Don’t patronize me,” Perry says. “This probably doesn’t even have anything to do with me.”

“What?” Rick asks.

“This is all you, buddy. It’s all in your head,” Perry says, with a mean sneer. “Everything’s been going so good lately, you have to sabotage it by imagining I’m _fattening you for the slaughter_ , or whatever the fuck that was.”

“Why would I do that,” Rick asks.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? How am I supposed to know what goes on in that head of yours? It’s not like you tell me,” Perry says. “You don’t tell me anything.”

“That’s such _bullshit_ ,” Rick says.

“When’s the last time we even talked about all the shit going on in our lives? Huh? Have we ever even _had_ a serious talk?” Perry asks.

“Whose fault is that? There _are_ two of us in this relationship, the last time I checked,” Rick snaps.

“It shouldn’t always have to be up to me,” Perry says.

Rick grabs his beer and takes a long pull. It’s bitter, and burns down his throat. He savors it. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means I’m tired of pushing you,” Perry says, his angry tone flattening, going dull.

“Pushing me?” Rick lowers his bottle, sets it down on the table with a wet thump.

“Pushing you to—to show _anything_. To show that I mean something to you. That _this_ means something to you.” Perry sweeps his hands through his hair and tugs at it. “It’s just—you don’t show how you feel. You’re such a tough read. I never know exactly where I stand with you, and it’s fucking _exhausting_.”

“You could’ve said something,” Rick says.

“I _know_ that. But it’s fucking hard, Rick. After all the crap we waded through in the beginning just to be together, do you really think I wanted to be the one to say, ‘hey, this isn’t working’?” Perry lowers his eyes to his mostly untouched plate of food.

Rick looks away too, swallowing at a lump in his throat. “So, what are you saying?”

Perry sighs deeply. “I’m saying it’s not working for me. Not right now.”

Rick glances at him. “I thought things were going well.”

“They are—they _do_. Until they don’t, and then we’re at each other’s throats,” Perry says, rubbing his thumb into his eye. “Like right now. Right now, it’s not going well. Maybe in a couple hours or a couple days, things will be okay. Then a few days later, we’ll be trying to kill each other again.”

“All couples go through shit like this,” Rick says.

Perry frowns, averts his gaze. “I hate feeling like I have to walk on eggshells all the time.”

“You don’t—”

“I do,” Perry cuts him off. “You too.”

Rick sighs and falls silent for a few long moments. “I don’t know why we can’t just get this right,” he says, finally. “We were friends first. The rest should be easy.”

Perry rubs at his face. “That’s the problem,” he says, his voice muffled behind his hands.

“What is?” 

“I dunno, thinking that this should’ve just come easy to us,” Perry says, dropping his hands. “We just expected things to be the same as before, and they’re not. Everything changed when we decided to try the whole relationship thing—except us.”

Rick sits there in stony silence, unable to speak. Perry’s words ricochet in his head like a bullet. Somewhere, he can hear a clock ticking loudly. “Are you breaking up with me?” he finally asks.

“I don’t know,” Perry says.

“Okay.” Rick nods, falls silent again.

Perry reaches out across the table and catches Rick’s hand in his. Perry’s elbow ends up in a plastic cup of sweet and sour sauce, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Right now, I think that’s what we both need.”

“You don’t know what I need,” Rick says, tugging his hand away gently. He pushes his chair away from the table and gets up. “You’re doing this for yourself.”

“That’s not fair,” Perry says.

Rick turns toward Perry, but averts his gaze to the floor. “I should probably go pack.”

Perry breathes in deeply. Exhales. “Okay.”

Rick turns and heads down the hall, for the bedroom he’s been sharing with Perry since he arrived. His empty duffel bag is sitting in the corner by Perry’s battered old armchair. Rick starts opening dresser drawers and reclaiming his clothes. 

Perry doesn’t get up to stop him.

-

His mom tries to press him about his little jaunt off to Arizona, but Rick doesn’t say much. “It was nice, Mom. I had a nice time. Perry was a great host. It was nice.”

Rick’s pretty sure his mom can tell something’s _up_ , though; he thinks she has a sixth sense, or something. His mother has always been able to tell when something’s not quite right with one of her boys.

“Are you sure you’re okay,” his mom asks for what seems like the millionth time.

Rick’s been staying with his parents, holed up in his childhood bedroom ever since he got back from Arizona. Maybe that—Rick coming back home with his tail between his legs—was the first sign to his mom that something wasn’t right, he’s not sure.

She doesn’t seem to mind, though. He thinks she likes having one of her sons back home, even if said son has practically had a black raincloud overhead since he showed up.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Rick says. It’s been his default response to everything lately, and he knows she doesn’t believe him. Rick thumbs through a paltry selection of daytime television before settling on one of those stupid judge shows.

“You keep saying that.” His mom steps into the den and turns on the light. “Why don’t you go to the park? You look like you could use some sun.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Rick says, sighing, not tearing his eyes away from the TV.

“Rick, I’m not going to pry, but—”

“But you’re going to anyway,” Rick finishes.

“But,” his mom continues, unperturbed, “you haven’t been the same since you got back from Arizona. Did something happen with you and Ryan?”

Rick glances at her, sizes her up, wonders how much she knows. Wonders if she’s just taking a stab in the dark. “I told you, Mom, everything’s good with me and Ryan.”

“I don’t believe you.” She shuts the door behind her. Rick can practically hear the steel girders clanging into place.

Rick sighs. “And you’re not going to let me out until I tell you what you want to hear?”

“I’d rather not resort to torture, but if it comes to that, so be it.” She leans back against the door and folds her arms across her chest.

Rick ducks his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “We got into a fight. We fought and we’re not friends anymore, so . . .” Maybe he should be worried how easy it is for him to lie to his mom, but he’s not.

“Uh huh,” she says, raising an eyebrow, sounding skeptical.

“It’s the truth. I don’t even get why you’re pressing the issue,” he says. “It is what it is.”

“Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine,” she says. Rick waits for the catch, but the door opens with a soft _snick_ of air and he looks up. She lingers in the doorway, one hand on the brass knob. His mom’s eyes are soft, maybe even a little sad. Sad for _him_. “I’m here if you change your mind, though.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Rick says, sincere, for the first time in a while.

She smiles at him, eyes crinkling in the corners, and leaves him.

-

It’s a stupid idea, and he’s totally embarrassed after the fact, but he loses his resolve and texts Perry.

>   
>  **text to: Ryan Perry**  
>  _received: 10/22/09 00:05_  
>  hi its me, are u ok??

He puts his phone down on the nightstand, next to a glass of liquid courage—a rum and Coke that’s about ninety percent rum—and contemplates chucking the phone out the window. A few minutes later, his phone starts buzzing and Rick reluctantly flips it open.

>   
> 
> 
> **text from: Ryan Perry**  
>  _received: 10/22/09 00:12_  
>  Yea Im fine.. Are you?

Rick sighs, dials Perry’s number, and waits. It rings a few times, and just as he’s about to hang up, figuring Perry’s screening his calls, he picks up, sounding drowsy and grumbly.

“Rick, what is it?”

“I—I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Rick says, already losing his nerve.

“I’m okay,” Perry says. “You?”

“I’m okay,” Rick echoes.

Perry snuffs lightly. “Uh huh. You’re completely fine. Which is why you’re calling me at midnight, your time,” Perry says.

Rick picks up the rum and Coke and takes a sip. The rum, watered down by the Coke and ice cubes, still burns. “I miss you.” He rests the glass against his chest.

Perry is quiet for a while, long enough that Rick wonders if he hung up. “I miss you too,” he says finally, after a few minutes of dead air. “I think about you a lot. About us.”

“Me, too,” Rick says. He pauses, gathers his thoughts. “It’s not too late to take it back.”

“Rick.” Perry sighs. “I can’t, not now. Don’t do this.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Rick says, running his finger along the rim of the glass. He laughs, but it sounds choppy, insincere, faked. “Maybe you were right, maybe things weren’t great. But I don’t see how this is any better.”

“We’re both too close to it right now. Can’t see the forest for the trees,” Perry says cryptically.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Rick asks.

“Here we go again. This is exactly what I was talking about,” Perry says. “All we seem to do is fight.”

Rick rubs the heel of his hand into his forehead, tries to knead out the beginnings of a headache. “I’m sorry.”

“I am, too,” Perry says.

“I’ll—I guess I’ll let you go, then,” Rick says.

“Okay . . . See you around, Rick.”

“ ‘Bye, Ryan.” 

Rick shuts down his cell phone and drops it back on the nightstand. He presses his thumbs into the corners of his eyes and closes them for a little bit. The pressure is building inside his head, at his temples, probably a tension headache or something. He massages the bridge of his nose, but the headache doesn’t relent.

The bedroom door creaks open and Rick opens one eye.

“Rick, hey.” It’s Jake. Of course it’s Jake. “Didn’t know you were back.”

“Hey,” Rick says, sighing and sitting up in bed. “What’re _you_ doing back home?”

Jake pads into the room, barefoot, and settles down on the end of Rick’s bed. “Mom offered to feed me for the weekend, and I’m not one to pass up free food,” he admits.

“That woman is evil,” Rick says.

“She’s got her ways,” Jake agrees. “So, everything all right with you?”

Rick frowns. “What did Mom tell you?”

Jake shrugs. “She said you’ve been kinda moody. Moodier than usual, I mean.” Jake cracks a half-hearted grin that doesn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes.

Rick looks at Jake, studies him silently. “You’ve got to promise this doesn’t leave this room,” Rick says, after a few minutes. “Okay?”

“Okay, fine. Cross my heart and hope to die,” Jake says, drawing an _x_ over his chest.

Rick drags in a deep breath, lets it go. “Ryan and I broke up,” he says in a rush.

Jake twists his mouth into a half-smile and nods. “Kinda figured.”

“Yeah?” Rick asks.

“Yeah. Just had a feeling.” Jake reaches out as if to pat Rick on the arm, but drops his hand on the mattress instead. “I’m sorry, Ricky.”

“I’m fine, Jake. It’s good,” Rick says.

Jake squirms a little and starts tugging at a loose thread on the bedspread. “Hey, if you wanna talk about it . . . I’m here. No pressure or anything.”

“Thanks,” Rick says. “I appreciate it. It means a lot.” Rick cracks a smile, and Jake does too. 

-

The ache in his chest from the loss—of Perry, their friendship, even their failure of a relationship—doesn’t quite go away as quickly as Rick would have liked. The movies make it look so fucking easy; the hero gets dumped on a Sunday and by Wednesday, he’s the life of the party and he’s got a new guy or girl on his arm. 

Well, it’s been over a month and Rick still feels like he got kicked in the chest. It doesn’t hurt as acutely as it did when it first happened, when the wound was raw and fresh, but it’s still there. He can still feel it, this low, constant ache deep in his marrow, like a broken bone that didn’t set right or something.

Rick goes on a few casual dates with a girl he went to high school with, but nothing really comes of it. He kind of thinks the girl—Cassidy, Carrie, something like that—can tell he’s not really into her, or even the idea of dating.

She drops a “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” on him during one of their date nights, and Rick has the good sense to flush in embarrassment at that. They don’t go on many more dates after that; Cassidy-or-Carrie stops answering his texts and phone calls, and Rick just lets it go at that. He can’t really blame her either; he wouldn’t answer his texts and phone calls either.

Maybe he should care more, but the thing is he just doesn’t. Perry would probably say he’s just drifting through life right now—and, fuck, he told himself he wasn’t going to do that anymore. He’s been pretty good with the whole not thinking about Perry thing, for the most part. Just, sometimes he gets lonely, trapped inside his head. It usually happens late at night, when he can’t sleep and he just ends up staring at the shadowy patterns on his ceiling until he passes out for a few hours. Then he wakes up—and wash, rinse, repeat.

Jake tells him he seems depressed.

“Fuck off, Jake,” Rick says. He stirs a spoon in his bowl of oatmeal listlessly, as he pays half-hearted attention to the morning traffic report. 

“I’m being serious.” Jake props his bare feet up on Rick’s kitchen table and thumbs through the contacts on his iPhone.

Rick elbows Jake’s feet off the table. “I’m not depressed.”

“You just seem kinda mopey,” Jake says, smirking at his phone.

Rick sighs and rubs his hands over his face. He groans. “I’m fine.”

Jake drops his phone on the table with a thud. “Look, man, why don’t you just call him or something?”

Rick turns his focus squarely on his bowl of lukewarm oatmeal. “And why would I do that?”

“I dunno, maybe it’ll cheer you up or something. Believe it or not, I hate seeing you all—all down in the dumps and shit.” Jake waves a hand at Rick inelegantly.

Rick shovels a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth and chases it with a swig of milk. “Whatever, Jake.”

“Don’t ‘whatever’ me, Frederick.” Jake puts his feet back on the table.

“Don’t call me Frederick.” Rick pushes his half-eaten bowl of oatmeal aside and gets up.

“Stop acting like a Frederick and maybe I wouldn’t,” Jake says.

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Rick dumps his bowl and glass in the sink and plucks his hoodie off the coatrack by the kitchen door. “I’m headed out for a run. You can hang around if you want.”

“Nah, I should probably get going too. I got class in the evening.” Jake grabs his phone and keys off the kitchen table and pockets them. “I’ll see you later, bro.”

Rick nods and offers his brother a smile. “See you, Jake.”

A few minutes later, Rick hears Jake’s car start up and then screech out of his driveway. Rick looks at his own phone, lying on the granite kitchen counter, and tosses Jake’s advice around in his head.

Rick had felt like he’d finally been able to get Perry out of his system. All of this—avoiding Perry’s occasional attempts at reaching out—was kind of like a much-needed Perry detox, and calling him would be a giant step back.

_Relapse_ , he thinks, still locked in on his phone’s shiny black screen. Rick grabs his phone and powers it up. Perry’s still in his contacts; sure, he’d stopped responding to his infrequent calls and texts, but he’d never been able to delete him. It would be so easy to just open his contacts and call him up, see how he’s been doing since the last time they spoke.

After a few long seconds of contemplation, Rick puts the phone down, slips into his hoodie, and goes for his morning jog.

-

Rick doesn’t talk to Perry again until Spring Training in Lakeland.

A lot of different stuff has happened over the offseason; mainly, Dombrowski shipped off maybe the team’s most popular, personable player in Curtis Granderson for a bunch of prospects and the fanbase is in full-on panic mode.

Rick tries not to get caught up in any of it, but it’s hard, even for a player. It’s pretty much everywhere he looks. His parents heard the Halladay rumors, so even they’re getting kind of nutty about all the trades now.

It’s kind of funny what’s changed and what’s stayed exactly the same since the last time Rick was in Lakeland.

Rick’s standing in front of his locker, changing into his jersey, when a hand lands on his back and thumps hard. He doesn’t even have to look up to see who it is; he just knows. “Hey.” He starts buttoning his jersey up.

Perry pulls over a chair on rollers and plops down in it. “Hey, how was your offseason?”

Rick finishes buttoning up his jersey and finally glances over at Perry. He looks fat and tan, and his blond hair is long, unkempt and sun-bleached. “It was good. You?”

Perry reaches up to finger some tiny white puka shell beads on a brown leather lace around his neck. “I had a pretty good offseason, too.” He pauses and drops his hand. “You look good.”

Rick laughs and tucks his jersey into his pants, zipping up and cinching his belt around his waist. “Thanks. You look like you’ve put on some weight.”

“Vanessa’s been—you remember Vanessa, right?” Perry’s eyes light up and Rick can practically see him struggle to suppress a smile. 

“Not really, but go on,” Rick says, leaning back against his stall.

“Well, I’ve been kinda hanging out with her and she’s been stuffing me full of Mexican food. _Real_ Mexican food, none of that Taco Bell shit.” Perry grins.

“Good for you,” Rick says, laughing. He can’t help but grin back at Perry, even though the mention of Vanessa kind of feels like a sucker punch at first. It goes away quickly, though. Perry looks so happy, Rick just can’t help but feel good for him too.

“You mean it?” Perry asks.

“Yeah,” Rick says with a nod. “I do.”

Perry gets up and scratches a hand through his shaggy hair. He glances around quickly before stepping in closer and lowering his voice. “I should’ve called or something, but I wanted to tell you in person.”

Rick looks down at the gray carpet and kicks lightly at it. He hasn’t shared airspace with Perry in months. It’s still kind of weird. “It’s cool, Ryan.”

“I wish—” Perry begins, but can Rick tell from the tone of his voice that whatever he’s going to say will just make things harder for Rick. He cuts in before Perry can finish.

“Are you good now? Happy?” Rick asks.

“I am . . .” Perry shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “Are you?”

Rick wonders if he should lie. He’s not really happy, not yet. He has his moments, but hasn’t quite figured out what they were to each other or what they are now. Sometimes he wonders if the whole thing was even worth it, wonders if there was a point to loving somebody and then fucking it up the way they did. He owes it to himself to be honest, though—and he owes it to Perry, too.

“I’m getting there,” Rick finally says, flashing Perry a crooked smile.

“You will,” Perry says, stepping back. He sounds like he really believes that.

“I know.”

Perry grins, reaches out and whacks him on the shoulder. “Hey, last one to the dugout is a fuckin’ loser.” He turns and bolts out of the clubhouse, his hyena-like laughter echoing loudly off the stucco walls outside.

Rick laughs quietly and trots after him. He’s feeling generous today. He’ll let Perry win this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


	2. Discarded Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like four and a half years later... I found some older versions of this story, which include a buttload of discarded scenes. I decided to post the ones I liked. Originally, this story ended very differently.

_This is the original ending to the section that starts "See? Things're lookin' up for you two." There was originally more to this scene but I'm about 96% sure a big chunk of it got deleted while I was posting it._

“What, getting stuck in a tree isn’t embarrassing enough for you? You fucking sadist,” Porcello scolds.

Perry grins. “Yeah, I am. Deal with it.”

Porcello sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair. “You suck.”

“Only when asked nicely,” Perry says, getting up and casting Porcello a smirk. He drops the shoe at Porcello’s feet and shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Here, you can have your shoe back.”

Porcello picks up the crosstrainer and pulls it on, lacing it up tightly. “You gave up pretty easily,” he says, glancing briefly at Perry before turning his attention back to his crosstrainer. He fiddles with the laces, untying and retying them. “What’ve you got up your sleeve now?”

“A gentleman never tells.” Perry says, his expression inscrutable. He tips his cap to Porcello and trots out of the clubhouse.

* * *

_This scene slots in after the "So your teammates are assholes" convo between Rick and Jake. I'm not really sure what the point of this was, except to maybe try and repair the Rick/JV friendship, but I ended up removing it and going for a more subtle approach. I think it comes from a second or third draft, after I'd already decided Rick and Ryan wouldn't end up together._

Somehow, he gets twisted around on the way back to his and Perry’s apartment and he ends up at Verlander’s place.

He’s entirely prepared to run away with his tail between his legs, but Verlander’s in his driveway, washing his Porsche with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge, and he sees him.

“Did you walk all the way here?” Verlander drops the sponge in the bucket and stands, wiping his wet hands off on the front of his t-shirt, which reads **KEEP STARING, I MIGHT DO A TRICK** in puffy white letters.

Porcello rolls his eyes at the shirt. “No, I jogged.” He shoves his hands in the front pocket of his Seton Hall Prep hoodie and scuffs the heel of his crosstrainer on the concrete.

“You want somethin’ to drink? I got beers chillin’ inside,” Verlander says, jerking his thumb toward his condo.

Porcello shrugs. “Uh, sure, I guess. Is your girl here?”

“Nah. She’s out shoppin’ with Bondo’s wife,” Verlander says, motioning for Porcello to follow him inside, which he does. “Got the whole place to myself.”

The inside of Verlander’s condo looks just like Porcello had been expecting—big, ostentatious, and entirely fitting. A potted bonsai tree sits next to the door, and Verlander glances down at it with a look of resentment.

“That was Emily’s idea,” he explains, closing the door and kicking off his crosstrainers. He nudges them next to the tree. “She says it’s to help me be more _zen_ , or somethin’.”

“It’s cute,” Porcello says, following Verlander into the kitchen.

Verlander looks over at Porcello and furrows his brow. “You didn’t just say that, did you?”

“I guess I did.” Porcello leans against the counter and rests his elbow on the smooth granite countertop. “Nice place you got here.”

“My ’06 playoff bonus went towards this place,” Verlander says proudly, opening the fridge and grabbing a couple cans of Budweiser. He knocks the fridge door shut with his knee and brings the beers over, shoving one into Porcello’s hand. “So, what brings you over to my neck of the woods?”

Porcello cracks open the beer and takes a long pull, ignoring Verlander’s hiked eyebrow. “Was in the area.”

“You an’ Perry still fightin’?” Verlander sips his beer, expression unreadable.

“We weren’t fighting to begin with,” Porcello says.

“Right.” Verlander doesn’t sound like he believes it though. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“We weren’t,” Porcello insists.

“Look, man, ’s none of my business.” Verlander puts his beer down and leans back against the counter. “Why’re you really here?”

“Like I said—”

“I know what you said, and I don’t really believe you. You’ve been kind of avoidy since the strip club. What gives?” Verlander almost sounds _hurt_ , and Porcello wants to laugh, but he manages to restrain himself.

“Avoidy?” Porcello asks, scrunching his brow. Because— _really_?

“You know what I mean.” Verlander sets his beer down on the counter with a wet thump. “What gives?”

* * *

_These scenes are from the first or second draft and are how Rick and Ryan originally got together. Dated Donald Trump reference! The "The Yankees come into town at the beginning of the last week in April" scene ended up replacing this one._

Porcello and Perry are watching the Late Show together, and Porcello isn’t quite sure who to be thankful to for managing to wrestle Perry out of Zumaya’s ironclad grip for a night. Maybe God, but he doesn’t think God really cares about his emo high school bullshit.

Conan’s launching into an impression of Donald Trump when Perry reaches over and punches Porcello in the chest, surprisingly hard.

“What was that for?” Porcello asks, rubbing his chest over his heart.

“To see if you were paying attention,” Perry says, settling back, balancing a bowl of popcorn in his lap precariously.

“I am now,” Porcello grumbles, still rubbing his chest.

“I didn’t hit you that hard. Quit being a baby,” Perry laughs, and Porcello can see a popcorn hull stuck between two of Perry’s teeth. 

“It _hurt_ ,” Porcello grumbles.

“Baby,” Perry teases, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Shut up, Ryan.” Porcello wraps his hand around the remote to keep from lashing out at Perry. 

He doesn’t really know why he’s suddenly so angry at Perry, anyway. It’s not like he hasn’t teased him before over everything under the sun. Perry’s latest thing is Porcello’s taste in music. Perry prefers heavy metal and Porcello classic rock, and Perry’s decided to take personal offense to the fact Porcello prefers Springsteen to Slayer. Everything about Perry’s been bugging him lately, ever since the talk with Jake, and Porcello’s finally had enough.

“No, _you_ shut up.” Perry tosses some more popcorn into his mouth and chews loudly, probably just to annoy Porcello some more.

It works. Porcello tosses the remote at Perry’s head and he just narrowly misses hitting him. It skids across the hardwood and only stops when it collides with the wall. Perry stares at him with a look of bewilderment that quickly shifts into rage.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” Perry sets the bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table with a firm thump.

“You’re my problem,” Porcello says.

“You could’ve hit me, you idiot,” Perry says, sounding affronted. He grabs a pillow and squeezes it in his hands.

“I could’ve if I wanted to and I didn’t,” Porcello says, feeling reckless. It feels good. Really fucking good. “I’ve got pinpoint control, you know.”

Perry gets up and shoves the pillow into Porcello’s chest. “Man, I don’t even know who the fuck you are anymore,” he snaps, stomping noisily - way more noisily than he has to - for the kitchen.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Porcello jumps up and follows after him. His fingers itch to push Perry against the wall and just pound the hell out of him until his knuckles bleed, or something.

Perry stops and turns on Porcello, and they’re so close Porcello has to back up a couple steps.

“You used to be cool to hang out with and shit,” Perry says, jaw tight and his mouth thinned, unfriendly. The look in his eyes is cold and unfamiliar. “You were just - just li’l Ricky. And now you’re - I don’t even know.” Perry waves his hand at Porcello, lacking the words to describe just how much Porcello’s changed, apparently.

“I’m still the same guy I was during Spring Training, and Lakeland,” Porcello says, evenly.

“No you’re not.” Perry drops his arm at his side. “I dunno what’s going on inside that head of yours, Rick, but . . .” He trails off.

Porcello rubs his hands over his face and into his hair, tugs his fingers through it. “But what?”

“It’s Verlander, right? You guys haven’t been right since you went clubbing [[where?]],” Perry says. He grabs the popcorn bowl and heads into the kitchen. 

Porcello follows him. “It’s has nothing to do with fucking _Verlander_.” He spits his name out like a bad taste.

“Then what is it, Rick? Is it me? You got some beef with me I don’t know about? If you do, by all means, spit it out.” Perry sets the bowl down on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, eyes hard.

Porcello stares at him, swinging violently from righteous anger to desperation, his chest tightening and his throat constricting. “I don’t have any problems with you. It’s just - something I gotta deal with on my own.”

“Bullshit. I gotta live with you.”

“You don’t have to. I could move out,” Porcello says.

“Fuck you, you’re not moving out,” Perry says, dropping his arms and balling his hands in fists at his sides. He opens his hands, flexes his fingers out.

Porcello leans heavily against the wall and closes his eyes. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”

“Didn’t think _what_ would be this hard?” Perry asks.

Porcello scratches at his hair, avoiding looking Perry in the eyes. He focuses intently on the toe of Perry’s ratty old sneaker instead. “You.”

“Stop speaking in fucking riddles and just say what you mean,” Perry nearly growls.

Porcello snaps his head up. Perry is watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. Porcello’s chest tightens again, but not because he’s scared, not exactly.]]

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what -”

“This.”

Porcello strides forward in two large steps, grabs Perry’s face in his hands, and kisses him. Perry wraps his hands around Porcello’s wrists and pulls his hands away from his face, breaking the kiss. Porcello steps back, waits for the anger, the fear, the feel of Perry’s knuckles against his face.

None of it comes, though, and Porcello’s not sure if the lack of reaction is better or worse than the expected anger and violence.

Perry stares at him, mouth open slightly, lips wet and red, and Porcello thinks, ridiculously enough, _I did that_.

“Ryan, I -” 

Perry cuts the apology short. “What _was_ that?”

A sarcastic reply bubbles up in Porcello’s throat, one that probably _would_ get him hit, and he has to swallow it down. “I’m sorry. I don’t _know_ what that was.”

“Apparently it was you kissing me,” Perry says.

“Look, can’t we just forget that this ever happened?” Porcello all but begs.

“ _No_ , we can’t just forget that this ever happened,” Perry says. 

“Why not?” Porcello asks.

“I don’t know, maybe that’s not what _I_ want,” Perry says.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Perry pushes Porcello until the small of his back bumps up against the edge of the countertop, hands planted on his chest. They stare at one another, barely breathing, and then Perry is leaning in, pressing his lips against Porcello’s, and Porcello thinks, _This is too good to be true_ , waits for the other shoe to drop.

When it doesn’t, he forces himself to open his eyes, see it for himself. Perry’s eyes are squinched shut, like maybe he’s got a headache, creased at the corners, and it’s the best thing. Porcello’s heart feels like it’s swelling in his chest like a balloon, and he smiles against Perry’s mouth.

Perry pulls back, blinking his eyes open, narrowing them at Porcello. “What?”

“Nothing,” Porcello says, smile widening.

Perry returns the smile, a shy twitch of his lips, and rests his arm lightly over Porcello’s left shoulder. “So, now what?”

“I don’t know,” Porcello says, glancing down. “I didn’t really get this far.”

“Is this what you’ve been so uptight about lately?” Perry asks.

Porcello shrugs and Perry’s arm drops off his shoulder. He immediately misses the warm weight of it. Porcello lifts his eyes to Perry’s. “Kind of. It’s - it’s a lot of things, actually.”

“And you didn’t think you could come to me with any of this?” Perry asks.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Porcello says. “I just thought I could deal with everything on my own.”

Perry shakes his head and laughs. “Next time, come see me.”

“Yes, sir.” Porcello picks at a stray thread on the hem of Perry’s t-shirt.

Perry rubs his hands up and down Porcello’s arms, like he’s trying to warm them. “So, what’s this gonna be? A one-time deal? A friends with benefits kinda thing?”

Porcello shrugs. “I dunno, I’m not looking for a - a thing, you know?”

“Neither ’m I,” Perry agrees. “No things.”

“So I guess it’s a friends with benefits thing, then,” Porcello says. “It feels weird talking about it, you know? Like, we’re drawing up a plan or something.”

Perry laughs, sliding his hands from Porcello’s arms to his waist. “Yeah. I’ve never really done this before,” he says.

“Wait, what? You’ve never done anything with a guy?”

“No, I mean, hashed out the ground rules beforehand, you know? Usually it’s just, ‘hop into bed, fuck around, and then see what happens’.” Perry shrugs, smiling.

“So you’ve been with dudes before, is what you’re saying,” Porcello teases, sliding his hands around the back of Perry’s neck, lacing his fingers together. “How many dudes’re we talking about here?”

“Jesus, Rick,” Perry says, cheeks flushing.

Porcello grins, delighted. “You’re totally blushing.”

“I am _not_ ,” he insists.

“You are.” Porcello kisses him.

“What about you,” Perry mumbles against his mouth. “How many dudes’ve _you_ been with?”

“Too many to count,” Porcello lies, kissing him again. “Don’t have enough fingers and toes to count ’em all off.”

“Liar.” Perry pushes him back into the counter again. “I bet you’re a virgin.”

“Dude, I’m not a virgin,” Porcello laughs. “And, ow, the knob for the dish washer is digging into my spleen.”

Perry shifts them over a few inches and pushes Porcello back into the kitchen counter, grinning wickedly. “Don’t believe you.”

Porcello rolls his eyes. “I had a girlfriend all through high school.”

“Doesn’t mean you fucked her,” Perry says, ducking his head, running his mouth almost experimentally over Porcello’s neck.

Porcello tips his head to the side and closes his eyes. “We were prom king and queen,” he says, sliding his hands up Perry’s back, over his shoulder blades. “I fucked her in the back of the limo while the chauffeur went on his smoke break.”

“Don’t believe you,” Perry says into the skin between Porcello’s neck and shoulder.

“Don’t care. Doesn’t matter.” Porcello runs his fingers down Perry’s back and under his shirt.

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom.” Perry bites down lightly and Porcello shivers in response. He feels Perry smile against his neck.

“Maybe?” Porcello asks.

“Hey, for all I know, you’re into kinky sex on the kitchen counters or something,” Perry says, pulling back and giving Porcello a smirk.

Porcello punches him in the chest. “Dork.”

Perry smiles. “You like it.”

Porcello smiles back. “I do.”

* * *

_This scene slots in after the "kiddy diddler" convo Rick and Ryan have after their first time. This is also from a first or second draft._

As cheesy as it sounds, every successive day feels like a new adventure, full of possibility and promise.

Porcello likes waking up every morning with his head on Perry’s shoulder, Perry’s fingers laced through his hair, a leg thrown over his, the bed sheets tangled up around their waists. 

He likes making coffee and breakfast for two and serving it to Perry in bed. He doesn’t even mind too much when Perry spills coffee on the white bed sheets, or when he accidentally kicks the serving tray and the food goes flying across the room.

Sometimes, when he’s sitting on the couch, watching _Jeopardy!_ or _Wheel of Fortune_ , Perry sneaks up behind him and starts speaking in a Satanic voice, and freaks the hell out of him. Other times, Perry wraps his arms around Porcello’s neck and they watch TV like that, with his chin on Porcello’s shoulder or his nose buried behind Porcello’s ear.

“I hope you know this is totally embarrassing,” Perry says into Porcello’s neck while Porcello tries to figure out the puzzle on _Wheel of Fortune_. 

“What is?” Porcello asks, reaching up to pat Perry’s arm.

“This,” he says, which doesn’t really clear anything up.

“This what?”

“Watching TV like this.”

“You can sit on the couch if you want,” Porcello says, dropping his hand into his lap.

“Like the view from here, though,” Perry murmurs, breath warm.

Porcello laughs. “You’re not even paying attention.”

“I’m paying attention to the good parts,” Perry says, but he climbs over the back of the couch and settles next to Porcello anyway.

Porcello slouches a little bit until his shoulder is touching Perry’s arm, and rests his hands in his lap. Perry glances down at Porcello - he can feel Perry shift next to him, angle his body towards Porcello - and reaches out, thumbing through Porcello’s hair.

“Hm?” Porcello rests his arm over Perry’s thigh and flips the remote in his hand.

“Nothing,” Perry says, and continues to mess with Porcello’s hair.

Porcello’s not really thinking about much of anything, mind comfortably blank. “Could get used to this,” he thinks he says, but he’s not too sure if he said it out loud or if he just thought it.

Perry doesn’t stop stroking his fingers through his hair, or indicate he even heard Porcello say anything at all, so Porcello doesn’t give it another thought.

* * *

_This scene is also a version of the story where they end up HEA. It just stopped working for me, and then I realized the story I was telling was more about Rick/Rick's rookie season than his relationship with Ryan. This comes immediately after the previous section._

They get rained out in Chicago, and Perry decides it’s apparently his mission in life to get Porcello to let Perry fuck him.

“Look, man, I have needs.”

Porcello looks up at Perry slowly and in what he hopes is a dramatic manner. “What?”

“I’ve got needs.” Perry is pulling on that stupid black see-through shirt and buttoning it up. “Don’t you know you have a certain amount of jizz you have to release or else your balls will explode?”

“That’s not true,” Porcello says, “and - and I dunno, man.” He sits up and rolls off his hotel bed and onto his feet. “What’re you dressing up for?”

“Verlander texted me. A bunch of the guys’re going out clubbing.” Perry finishes buttoning his shirt and starts fiddling with his cuffs. “You’re coming too, right?”

“Sure - wait, I thought you wanted to fuck me,” Porcello says.

“I didn’t really think you’d say yes, at least not just yet,” Perry says, tucking the tails of his shirt into his jeans. Perry eyes Porcello, a thoughtful look in eyes, and he bites on his bottom lip. “Are you, like, _never_ gonna let me fuck you? Or do you just not want to do it tonight?”

Porcello shrugs. “I didn’t really think about it,” he admits, stepping over to Perry’s side and opening the dresser drawer where he dumped all his stuff when they got in that morning. He pulls out a black t-shirt and slings it over his shoulder.

“Well?” Perry prods, snapping the t-shirt off Porcello’s shoulder and twisting it in his hands.

Porcello tries to grab the t-shirt back but Perry holds it out of his reach. “Well what,” Porcello asks, grabbing onto Perry’s shoulder for leverage.

“Well, have you thought about it?” Perry asks, dangling the shirt and snapping it out of reach when Porcello goes for it, grinning maniacally.

“In the three minutes since you asked me if I would let you fuck me?” Porcello tries to tug Perry’s arm down, but he refuses to budge.

“Duh,” Perry says, looping the shirt behind Porcello’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

“No,” Porcello mumbles against Perry’s mouth.

“Damn.” Perry smirks and kisses him again. “I’ll have to do something about that.”

Porcello presses his hands against Perry’s chest, laughing, and ducks his head when Perry tries to kiss him again. “Wait, we’re going out then?”

“Yeah, told Verlander we’d be there,” Perry says, letting go of the t-shirt.

Porcello grabs it and heads back to the dresser to pick out appropriate clubbing gear. “Uh, how d’you wanna do it?”

“Do what?” Perry asks, going over and sitting on the end of his bed. He scuffs the soles of his dress shoes against the carpet.

“I mean, you know, going out with the team for the first time as - whatever,” Porcello says, wishing immediately that he hadn’t even brought it up. 

Perry still looks confused. “I’m not following.”

“Clearly,” Porcello sighs, yanking off his t-shirt and pulling on the clean black one. “I meant, like, going out with the guys and being - fuckbuddies, or whatever. I won’t hang around you too much, if you’re worried about, you know.”

“Them thinking we’re fucking or something?” Perry supplies.

“Yeah,” Porcello says, pulling a pair of jeans out of his drawer.

“I’m cool,” he says, kicking his feet some more. “You?”

“Uh, yeah. Me too.” Porcello steps out of his pants and pulls on his jeans, buttoning and zipping them. Perry scoffs behind him and Porcello turns his head. “What?”

“Jeans?”

“At least they’re not dad jeans,” Porcello says, making air quotes with his fingers.

“Not much better.” Perry gets to his feet and grabs his wallet and phone. “You ready?” He holds his elbow out to Porcello chivalrously, grinning, but Porcello just laughs and pushes him toward the door.

* * *

_These scenes originally take place during the section that starts "The place Zumaya picked is surprisingly low-key and actually kind of classy." In earlier drafts of the story there were originally implications of unrequited or broken up Zumaya/Verlander and their relationship was going to act as a cautionary tale for Rick and Ryan, but I ended up excising that subplot. It ended up kind of evolving into Zumaya acting as Rick's shoulder to lean on in the final draft._

Zumaya snuffs lightly. “Bros before hos, man.”

Porcello laughs. “I told him the same thing.”

“He’ll learn,” Zumaya says, cutting a quick glance in the direction of Verlander and Emily. 

Porcello follows Zumaya’s gaze; Verlander and his girl are completely wrapped up in each other, quite literally. Emily is practically sitting in Verlander’s lap and has a small pale hand resting on his chest, near the open v of his cheesy black-and-silver striped shirt. Verlander has his long fingers tangled up loosely in her dark hair.

“Lookit that,” Zumaya says with a shake of his head, his tone sharp. Porcello decides that he’s drunk. “Bros before hos, man.”

Verlander knots his heavy dark brow. “My girl ain’t no ho, Zumaya.”

Emily laughs, a slight lilt to her tone. “Aw, babe, he’s just jealous.”

“Jealous o’ what?” Zumaya asks, puffing up like a prideful rooster.

“Can’t tell if you’re jealous of him,” Emily says, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against Verlander’s chest, “or me.”

Zumaya rolls his eyes and grabs his frosty glass, takes a long, deep pull, Adam’s apple bouncing. “Har fuckin’ har.” He nods to Verlander and bangs his glass down on the table a little too loudly. “Your girl’s a real comedian, Ver.”

Verlander paws through her hair, glowing. “Ain’t she the best?” He turns his head and noses behind her ear. “Zoomy’s just frustrated ’cause his li’l lady’s all the way out in SoCal.”

Porcello sips modestly at his drink and mentally checks out of the conversation. It isn’t until Zumaya’s thumping him on the back with his big paw that he realizes he’s being talked to.

“What?” Porcello pushes his drink aside.

“I _said_ ,” Zumaya huffs, listing heavily into Porcello’s side, “who’d you rather face bases loaded, nobody out. Miggy or Pujols?” Zumaya gives him what he probably thinks is an encouraging shove in the shoulder.

“Dude, you’re drunk,” Porcello says.

Verlander starts cackling. “No shit. Can’t hold his liquor for nothin’.” Verlander turns toward Zumaya, clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “You’re a disappointment to your people, Zoomy. You go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done.”

Zumaya narrows blood-shot eyes at Verlander and points at him across the table. Emily widens her eyes in surprise and presses her hand a little harder against Verlander’s chest. “Hey, least I ain’t no skinny, no-ass, squealy little -”

“All right, pal,” Porcello says, putting a hand on Zumaya’s arm, pushing it down, “maybe you oughta lay off the booze.”

“Might as well drag his fat ass home,” Verlander sighs, slipping his arm from Emily’s shoulders to pull a set of keys out of his pocket. He dangles them on his finger. “The Porsche’s my baby, rook. You fuck it up, I’ll fuck _you_ up, capisce?”

“Yeah, got it.” Porcello snags the keys from Verlander. “Why do I have to get him home anyway? Can’t you just call a taxi or something?”

Verlander shrugs and leans back, spreading his long arms out across the back of the booth. “You’re the rook, ’s your job,” he says, grinning.

Porcello slips out of the booth and grabs a handful of the back of Zumaya’s sports coat. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

-

Getting Zumaya out of Verlander’s ridiculous Porsche and into the place he’s renting in downtown Birmingham is less of a chore than Porcello had thought it’d be. Zumaya is immediately compliant, if a little Jello-legged, loops his thick arms around Porcello’s neck and lets Porcello drag his dead weight up the stone walkway to the front door.

“You weigh a ton,” Porcello grumbles, digging Zumaya’s house keys out of his pocket.

“Ain’t fat,” Zumaya says into Porcello’s neck.

“Didn’t say that.” Porcello gets the door open and shoves Zumaya against the wall with a solid thump. “I’m not gonna drag you all the way in. Either you start walking or I’ll leave you here in the foyer, okay?”

Zumaya nods slowly. “Arright, man, arright. Got it. Aye, cap’n.” He acknowledges Porcello with an army salute, even clicks his heels together, and nearly takes off Porcello’s head in the process.

“Jesus.” Porcello pushes Zumaya further along and kicks the door shut behind them.

Zumaya somehow makes it to the kitchen without Porcello’s assistance, where he pulls a stool up to the counter and promptly rests his head against the cool granite countertop.

“You okay?” Porcello asks from the doorway.

Zumaya murmurs. “ ’m fine, jus’ drank a little too much a little too fast ’s all.” 

Porcello crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe. “All right then,” he says. “Sure you’re gonna be okay on your own?”

Zumaya waves him off, not moving his forehead from the countertop. “I’ll be fine.”

Porcello reaches out and pats Zumaya between the shoulder blades. “See ya, man,” he says, and Zumaya mumbles something unintelligible in response. 

Porcello turns and lets himself out of Zumaya’s place.

* * *

_I don't remember when this little bit would have slotted in, but it obviously would have happened sometime before Joel's season ending injury._

You’re a cliché.” 

“Dude, I am not.” 

“You are, but it’s cool,” Zumaya says, still laughing. “Verlander listens to country music.” 

“Okay?” Rick says. 

“He’s a cliché too.” Zumaya props his feet up on one of the plastic water coolers in front of them. “We all kinda are, though.” 

Rick gives up on listening to the rest of his playlist before gametime and tucks his iPod in his pocket. “Baseball players?” 

Zumaya shrugs. “I guess."

* * *

_I honestly don't remember where I would have slotted this scene in but it seems like I had them breaking up and getting back together during the season at one point in the writing process, or continuing into the following season with them having breakup sex? I dunno. In retrospect, I think I probably should have kept a breakup/makeup scene in the fic so that the final breakup didn't seem so abrupt/out of nowhere._

Rick wakes up in a cold sweat, damp bedsheets tangled around his thighs. He shakes the wisps of a vague, cobwebby nightmare out of his mind and sits up slowly, rubbing his fists into his eyes. 

His alarm clock reads **7:34 AM** in big, angry red letters. 

“Can’t sleep either?” asks a voice from his doorway, and he looks up. Perry’s leaning against the doorjamb, smiling tiredly at him. He scuffs his big toe in the thick carpet. 

“Had a nightmare,” Rick mumbles, picking at a loose thread on his comforter. 

“Poor thing,” Perry says, feigning sympathy, pushing himself away from the doorjamb. A wicked grin flashes across his face. “Want me to get you a glass of warm milk?” 

“Oh, fuck off, Ryan,” Rick says, turning his back to Perry. He punches his pillow under his head and closes his eyes, but sleep won’t come. He’s still disappointingly awake, and he knows Perry is still lurking in his doorway because he can hear him breathing. 

“What was the nightmare about?” Perry finally asks, cutting through the silence. 

Rick doesn’t bother to raise his head from his pillow. “It was the fifteenth inning and I was still pitching. Then the Metrodome flooded. And there were piranhas,” he says, shuddering at the memory. 

Rick’s bed creaks as Perry climbs in and settles next to him. “Did they all look like Punto?” 

“Dude,” Rick grumbles. 

“Come on, admit it. It was funny.” Perry looms over Rick, grinning down at him. 

Rick shields his eyes with his hand. “It was _lame_.” 

Perry pulls Rick’s hand away from his face. “You’re smiling. I can see it.” 

“I’m not,” he whines. “Leave me alone, Ryan, seriously. Fucking exhausted here.” 

“I’m bored and I can’t get back to sleep,” Perry counters, as if his boredom should trump Rick’s down-to-the-bone exhaustion. He drops Rick’s hand and pokes him between his shoulder blades hard. “C’mon, Ricky.” 

“Fuck off.” Rick yawns deeply, covering his mouth with his hand. 

Perry sighs and stretches out beside him, drumming his fingertips on Rick’s arm. “D’you think if you’d stayed in we woulda won?” he asks. 

Rick bats his hand away. “Dunno,” he says, finally just shoving his head under his pillow. “Maybe.” 

Perry’s breath skitters across the back of Rick’s neck. “I wish you’d got the win, Ricky. You deserved it.” 

Rick squirms away until half of him is dangling off the edge of the mattress. “We all did and,” he adds, “please stop breathing on me.” 

“Kick me out then,” Perry challenges. 

Rick turns and glares at him. “You’re such a child. For God’s sake, go back to sleep.” 

“I _said_. I can’t _sleep_.” Perry tugs Rick back toward the middle of the mattress and hunkers down, rests his hands over his chest. 

Rick angles his head toward Perry’s shoulder and feels Perry card his fingers through his hair. “Call your mom for a bedtime story then.” 

“I could call _your_ mom for a bedtime sto—” 

Rick twists next to Perry and slugs him hard enough in the chest that he starts coughing. “Don’t _even_.” 

“Sorry.” Perry wheezes between coughs and rubs at his chest where Rick had pegged him with his fist. “Jeez, man, didn’t have to hit me so hard.” 

“You deserved it.” Rick rubs his knuckles and then blows on them. The movies always make punching people seem much more glamorous and much less painful than it actually is, and he feels deceived. Rick flexes his fingers out slowly and wriggles them. 

“Whatever, man. Your mom is hot. Can you blame me?” 

“Yes, I can.” Rick sits up to glare fully at Perry, but he just grins right back. 

“Not my fault she’s good looking. I just so happen to appreciate good looking—” 

“Jesus, Ryan, if you say one more word about my mother,” Rick says, knotting his still-aching hand into a fist again, “I swear to God.” 

Perry grins and grabs a handful of Rick’s short brown hair, tugs gently. “Got you to get your mind off the game and that nightmare, didn’t I? You should be fuckin’ thanking me.” 

Rick drops his fist and flops down over Perry dramatically, lets his body go boneless. “You suck.” 

“For a fee,” Perry says, rubbing a hand slowly between Rick’s shoulder blades. “But for you? I’d charge half price.” 

“ _So_ generous.” Rick lies there on his stomach, face shoved into his pillow, and lets Perry keep rubbing his back. 

“That’s the kinda guy I am.” Perry keeps rubbing on Rick’s back in slow circles. “Ricky?” 

Rick closes his eyes. “Hm. Yeah?” 

“I’m thinkin’ a backslide sounds pretty good right about now.” 

Rick lifts his head and catches Perry’s eye; he can’t tell if he’s being serious or joking. Not that he’d consider backsliding, no matter how upset he is over how the game had gone. “Dude.” 

“What?” Perry asks. 

“Are you being serious?” 

Perry shrugs and tucks his arms across his chest. “Maybe. We never did have breakup sex.” 

“I gave you a handjob, remember?” Rick rubs his thumb into one of his eyes. 

“We were drunk, so that doesn’t count,” Perry says. “I was joking, anyways.” 

Rick sits up and looks at Perry. “Right.” He wraps an arm around his knees and rubs his chin against his shoulder. 

Perry curls in a little closer, props himself up on his elbow, and tucks his hand under his cheek.

* * *

_I don't remember where this fit in but there was a B-plot (or C-plot?) where Ryan and Jake talked about Rick behind Rick's back. Mostly harmless care-and-feeding stuff._

“I talk to Jake, man,” Perry says, and it takes Porcello a couple seconds to realize Perry means Jake, the little snot-nosed punk back home in Chester, New Jersey. 

“You talk to my brother?” Porcello asks, trying not to sound too panicked. 

“Yeah,” Perry shrugs, slouching down the wall. “He’s a funny kid.” 

“And?” Porcello draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around himself. 

“He says you’re a little priss,” Perry says, offering Porcello a lop-sided grin. 

“That’s all?” Porcello asks. Perry nods. “I guess Jake was feeling charitable that day.” 

Perry reaches out and whacks Porcello in the shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, he’s right though. You oughtta loosen up a little bit. Get the stick outta your ass.” 

“I like myself just fine the way I am,” Porcello says, pushing Perry’s arm away. He feels like it’s all he’s been saying since he joined the rest of the team for Major League Spring Training. 

“Jake says -” 

“Fuck what Jake says,” Porcello interrupts. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I am. Just ’cause I’m not out, like, boozing it up and fucking everything that moves until the asscrack of dawn with you and Zumaya and Verlander doesn’t mean I’m a fucking priss.” 

Perry drops his arm, lets it flop loosely against the mattress. He’s silent for a couple minutes. “Priss.” 

Porcello turns his head. “Now you’re just doing that to piss me off.” 

“Yeah,” Perry admits. “Is it working yet?” 

Porcello shoves his pillow in Perry’s face and gets up, mattress creaking under them. “Okay. So, you wanted to go out. I’m in, if only to shut you up.” 

Perry pushes the pillow aside. “Really? Awesome, let me get my keys. Oh, wait, maybe you should drive.” Perry digs into his pocket and pulls out his keys, flipping them into Porcello’s chest. 

Porcello swings the keychain around on his finger. “Let’s go.”

* * *

_I don't remember where I had this scene slotted in. In fact, I don't even remember writing it._

Verlander and Perry burst through the double doors, Verlander wearing the smug smirk of a proud father. Perry’s wearing a sleeveless t-shirt to show off his tattoos. 

“My little boy’s all grown up,” Verlander says, pretending to wipe a tear away from his eye. 

“Aw, you got another one? Lemme see!” Zumaya catapults out of his locker and grabs onto Perry’s wrist, examining the ink running up and down his arm. “Shit! That’s fuckin’ sick, vato!” 

Porcello tries his best not to appear interested, but he can’t help but admit to himself that he’s a little curious. 

“How’d you do it,” Zumaya asks, sounding awed. 

“I don’t really remember,” Perry says, allowing Zumaya to fawn over his arm. “I was so fuckin’ drunk, man.” 

“C’mere, li’l Ricky. Check this shit out,” Verlander says, waving Porcello over to them. 

Porcello sighs and heads over to where Verlander, Zumaya and Perry are huddled. Verlander ticks his fingernail against Perry’s tattooed arm, and Porcello notices fresh ink on Perry’s shoulder. Porcello tilts his head and squints. 

“That looks a lot like -” 

“Gina? Yeah, it is,” Perry says. “According to her, we went to the tattoo parlor after we fucked around for a while, and I got that one done.” 

Perry’s flavor of the week has been immortalized in tattoo form on his shoulder, in all its tacky glory. 

“What happens when you find some other girl next week?” Porcello asks. 

“I can get it lasered off or something,” Perry says, pulling his arm out of Verlander’s grip. 

* * *

_At one point, Justin was an even bigger asshole than he ended up being in the final version. After Rick and Justin's failed stripclub outing he told Zumaya that Rick was gay (because he bailed on Justin and the implied threesome with strippers). I took it out because it didn't really make sense for them to make up later if he was that much of a homophobic dick. I think I wanted to drop hints that Ryan was more into Rick than Rick thought, but decided I could do that without making Verlander a shitty irredeemable person._

“I didn’t just come back ’cause I missed you,” he says. “Ricky - I overheard Ver tellin’ Zoom that you’re - you’re - you know.” 

“I’m what?” Porcello prompts. 

“That you’re - you’re gay,” Perry says, dropping his hand. “Ver was tellin’ Zoom that he thinks you’re into him ’cause you were acting weird around him at the strip club.” 

Porcello can’t help but laugh at Perry’s earnestness. “Whatever. I don’t care.” 

“You don’t care if Ver’s tellin’ guys you’re a fag?” Perry asks, blinking. 

“I don’t really value his opinion of me,” Porcello says. “If he wants to tell guys I’m into dudes, whatever. Not my problem.” 

“Are you?” Perry asks, listing slightly. 

“Does it matter to you who I fuck?” Porcello asks. 

Perry smiles. “Only if it’s me.” He flops on his stomach and pulls a pillow over his head. “ ’m sleepy. G’night, Rick.” 

Porcello lies back down next to Perry and pulls the bed sheet up. “ ’Night, Ryan.” 

Perry drapes an arm over Porcello’s waist and he’s out in minutes, his breath warm and damp against Porcello’s neck. 

Porcello stares at the ceiling until he loses track of time and falls into a series of fitful dreams he doesn’t remember when he wakes. 

* * *

_Originally, at one point in the drafting process, Ryan came with Rick to the restaurant scene with Justin, Emily, Rick, and Joel. I ended up taking Ryan out of that scene._

“So, Justin told me all about your tattoos,” Verlander’s girl says to Perry, leaning across the table and dropping a tiny hand on his wrist. “Can I see ’em?” 

Perry grins at the attention and unbuttons his cuff, rolling up his sleeve so that she can get a good look at them. “Got this one when I was in college,” Perry says, pointing to a tattoo of playing cards. “And I got this one during Spring Break a couple years ago. I’m planning on getting my sleeve done during the offseason, all gambling and poker stuff.” 

“That’s so neat.” She looks at Porcello. “What about you? You got any ink?” 

Porcello opens his mouth to respond, but Perry cuts him off. 

“Oh, him?” he laughs, slapping Porcello on the shoulder. “Li’l Ricky’s the type who’d get ‘Mom’ tattooed on his chest in a heart.” 

Verlander cackles, even though it’s not that funny, and drops a long arm around his girl’s shoulders. “He’s got you there, Porcello.”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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